Author: Henry Kuttner
Date: 2024-09-09T18:58:34+00:00
Keywords: Science fiction; Short stories
Description: A collection of short fiction by Henry Kuttner, ordered by date of original publication.
Publisher: Standard Ebooks

Short Fiction

By Henry Kuttner.

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The Secret of Kralitz

I awoke from profound sleep to find two black-swathed forms standing silently beside me, their faces pale blurs in the gloom. As I blinked to clear my sleep-dimmed eyes, one of them beckoned impatiently, and suddenly I realized the purpose of this midnight summons. For years I had been expecting it, ever since my father, the Baron Kralitz, had revealed to me the secret and the curse that hung over our ancient house. And so, without a word, I rose and followed my guides as they led me along the gloomy corridors of the castle that had been my home since birth.

As I proceeded there rose up in my mind the stern face of my father, and in my ears rang his solemn words as he told me of the legendary curse of the House of Kralitz, the unknown secret that was imparted to the eldest son of each generation—at a certain time.

“When?” I had asked my father as he lay on his deathbed, fighting back the approach of dissolution.

“When you are able to understand,” he had told me, watching my face intently from beneath his tufted white brows. “Some are told the secret sooner than others. Since the first Baron Kralitz the secret has been handed down—”

He clutched at his breast and paused. It was fully five minutes before he had gathered his strength to speak again in his rolling, powerful voice. No gasping, deathbed confessions for the Baron Kralitz!

He said at last, “You have seen the ruins of the old monastery near the village, Franz. The first Baron burnt it and put the monks to the sword. The Abbot interfered too often with the Baron’s whims. A girl sought shelter and the Abbot refused to give her up at the Baron’s demand. His patience was at an end—you know the tales they still tell about him.

“He slew the Abbot, burned the monastery, and took the girl. Before he died the Abbot cursed his slayer, and cursed his sons for unborn generations. And it is the nature of this curse that is the secret of our house.

“I may not tell you what the curse is. Do not seek to discover it before it is revealed to you. Wait patiently, and in due time you will be taken by the warders of the secret down the stairway to the underground cavern. And then you will learn the secret of Kralitz.”

As the last word passed my father’s lips he died, his stern face still set in its harsh lines.

Deep in my memories, I had not noticed our path, but now the dark forms of my guides paused beside a gap in the stone flagging, where a stairway which I had never seen during my wanderings about the castle led into subterranean depths. Down this stairway I was conducted, and presently I came to realize that there was light of a sort—a dim, phosphorescent radiance that came from no recognizable source, and seemed to be less actual light than the accustoming of my eyes to the near-darkness.

I went down for a long time. The stairway turned and twisted in the rock, and the bobbing forms ahead were my only relief from the monotony of the interminable descent. And at last, deep underground, the long stairway ended, and I gazed over the shoulders of my guides at the great door that barred my path. It was roughly chiseled from the solid stone, and upon it were curious and strangely disquieting carvings, symbols which I did not recognize. It swung open, and I passed through and paused, staring about me through a gray sea of mist.

I stood upon a gentle slope that fell away into the fog-hidden distance, from which came a pandemonium of muffled bellowing and high-pitched, shrill squeakings vaguely akin to obscene laughter. Dark, half-glimpsed shapes swam into sight through the haze and disappeared again, and great vague shadows swept overhead on silent wings. Almost beside me was a long rectangular table of stone, and at this table two score of men were seated, watching me from eyes that gleamed dully out of deep sockets. My two guides silently took their places among them.

And suddenly the thick fog began to lift. It was swept raggedly away on the breath of a chill wind. The far dim reaches of the cavern were revealed as the mist swiftly dissipated, and I stood silent in the grip of a mighty fear, and, strangely, an equally potent, unaccountable thrill of delight. A part of my mind seemed to ask, “What horror is this?” And another part whispered, “You know this place!”

But I could never have seen it before. If I had realized what lay far beneath the castle I could never have slept at night for the fear that would have obsessed me. For, standing silent with conflicting tides of horror and ecstasy racing through me, I saw the weird inhabitants of the underground world.

Demons, monsters, unnamable things! Nightmare colossi strode bellowing through the murk, and amorphous gray things like giant slugs walked upright on stumpy legs. Creatures of shapeless soft pulp, beings with flame-shot eyes scattered over their misshapen bodies like fabled Argus, writhed and twisted there in the evil glow. Winged things that were not bats swooped and fluttered in the tenebrous air, whispering sibilantly—whispering in human voices.

Far away at the bottom of the slope I could see the chill gleam of water, a hidden, sunless sea. Shapes mercifully almost hidden by distance and the semidarkness sported and cried, troubling the surface of the lake, the size of which I could only conjecture. And a flapping thing whose leathery wings stretched like a tent above my head swooped and hovered for a moment, staring with flaming eyes, and then darted off and was lost in the gloom.

And all the while, as I shuddered with fear and loathing, within me was this evil glee—this voice which whispered, “You know this place! You belong here! Is it not good to be home?”

I glanced behind me. The great door had swung silently shut, and escape was impossible. And then pride came to my aid. I was a Kralitz. And a Kralitz would not acknowledge fear in the face of the devil himself!

I stepped forward and confronted the warders, who were still seated regarding me intently from eyes in which a smoldering fire seemed to burn. Fighting down an insane dread that I might find before me an array of fleshless skeletons, I stepped to the head of the table, where there was a sort of crude throne, and peered closely at the silent figure on my right.

It was no bare skull at which I gazed, but a bearded, deadly-pale face. The curved, voluptuous lips were crimson, looking almost rouged, and the dull eyes stared through me bleakly. Inhuman agony had etched itself in deep lines on the white face, and gnawing anguish smoldered in the sunken eyes. I cannot hope to convey the utter strangeness, the atmosphere of unearthliness that surrounded him, almost as palpable as the fetid tomb-stench that welled from his dark garments. He waved a black-swathed arm to the vacant seat at the head of the table, and I sat down.

This nightmare sense of unreality! I seemed to be in a dream, with a hidden part of my mind slowly waking from sleep into evil life to take command of my faculties. The table was set with old-fashioned goblets and trenchers such as had not been used for hundreds of years. There was meat on the trenchers, and red liquor in the jeweled goblets. A heady, overpowering fragrance swam up into my nostrils, mixed with the grave-smell of my companions and the musty odor of a dank and sunless place.

Every white face was turned to me, faces that seemed oddly familiar, although I did not know why. Each face was alike in its bloodred, sensual lips and its expression of gnawing agony, and burning black eyes like the abysmal pits of Tartarus stared at me until I felt the short hairs stir on my neck. But—I was a Kralitz! I stood up and said boldly in archaic German that somehow came familiarly from my lips, “I am Franz, twenty-first Baron Kralitz. What do you want with me?”

A murmur of approval went around the long table. There was a stir. From the foot of the board a huge bearded man arose, a man with a frightful scar that made the left side of his face a horror of healed white tissue. Again the odd thrill of familiarity ran through me; I had seen that face before, and vaguely I remembered looking at it through dim twilight.

The man spoke in the old guttural German. “We greet you, Franz, Baron Kralitz. We greet you and pledge you, Franz—and we pledge the House of Kralitz!”

With that he caught up the goblet before him and held it high. All along the long table the black-swathed ones arose, and each held high his jeweled cup, and pledged me. They drank deeply, savoring the liquor, and I made the bow custom demanded. I said, in words that sprang almost unbidden from my mouth:

“I greet you, who are the warders of the secret of Kralitz, and I pledge you in return.”

All about me, to the farthermost reaches of the dim cavern, a hush fell, and the bellows and howlings, and the insane tittering of the flying things, were no longer heard. My companions leaned expectantly toward me. Standing alone at the head of the board, I raised my goblet and drank. The liquor was heady, exhilarating, with a faintly brackish flavor.

And abruptly I knew why the pain-racked, ruined face of my companion had seemed familiar; I had seen it often among the portraits of my ancestors, the frowning, disfigured visage of the founder of the House of Kralitz that glared down from the gloom of the great hall. In that fierce white light of revelation I knew my companions for what they were; I recognized them, one by one, remembering their canvas counterparts. But there was a change! Like an impalpable veil, the stamp of ineradicable evil lay on the tortured faces of my hosts, strangely altering their features, so that I could not always be sure I recognized them. One pale, sardonic face reminded me of my father, but I could not be sure, so monstrously altered was its expression.

I was dining with my ancestors—the House of Kralitz!

My cup was still held high, and I drained it, for somehow the grim revelation was not entirely unexpected. A strange glow thrilled through my veins, and I laughed aloud for the evil delight that was in me. The others laughed too, a deep-throated merriment like the barking of wolves—tortured laughter from men stretched on the rack, mad laughter in hell! And all through the hazy cavern came the clamor of the devil’s brood! Great figures that towered many spans high rocked with thundering glee, and the flying things tittered slyly overhead. And out over the vast expanse swept the wave of frightful mirth, until the half-seen things in the black waters sent out bellows that tore at my eardrums, and the unseen roof far overhead sent back roaring echoes of the clamor.

And I laughed with them, laughed insanely, until I dropped exhausted into my seat and watched the scarred man at the other end of the table as he spoke.

“You are worthy to be of our company, and worthy to eat at the same board. We have pledged each other, and you are one of us; we shall eat together.”

And we fell to, tearing like hungry beasts at the succulent white meat in the jeweled trenchers. Strange monsters served us, and at a chill touch on my arm I turned to find a dreadful crimson thing, like a skinned child, refilling my goblet. Strange, strange and utterly blasphemous was our feast. We shouted and laughed and fed there in the hazy light, while all around us thundered the evil horde. There was hell beneath Castle Kralitz, and it held high carnival this night.

Presently we sang a fierce drinking-song, swinging the deep cups back and forth in rhythm with our shouted chant. It was an archaic song, but the obsolete words were no handicap, for I mouthed them as though they had been learned at my mother’s knee. And at the thought of my mother a trembling and a weakness ran through me abruptly, but I banished it with a draft of the heady liquor.

Long, long we shouted and sang and caroused there in the great cavern, and after a time we arose together and trooped to where a narrow, high-arched bridge spanned the tenebrous waters of the lake. But I may not speak of what was at the other end of the bridge, nor of the unnamable things that I saw—and did! I learned of the fungoid, inhuman beings that dwell on far cold Yuggoth, of the cyclopean shapes that attend unsleeping Cthulhu in his submarine city, of the strange pleasures that the followers of leprous, subterranean Yog-Sothoth may possess, and I learned, too, of the unbelievable manner in which Iod, the Source, is worshipped beyond the outer galaxies. I plumbed the blackest pits of hell and came back—laughing. I was one with the rest of those dark warders, and I joined them in the saturnalia of horror until the scarred man spoke to us again.

“Our time grows short,” he said, his scarred and bearded white face like a gargoyle’s in the half-light. “We must depart soon. But you are a true Kralitz, Franz, and we shall meet again, and feast again, and make merry for longer than you think. One last pledge!”

I gave it to him. “To the House of Kralitz! May it never fall!”

And with an exultant shout we drained the pungent dregs of the liquor.

Then a strange lassitude fell upon me. With the others I turned my back on the cavern and the shapes that pranced and bellowed and crawled there, and I went up through the carved stone portal. We filed up the stairs, up and up, endlessly, until at last we emerged through the gaping hole in the stone flags and proceeded, a dark, silent company, back through those interminable corridors. The surroundings began to grow strangely familiar, and suddenly I recognized them.

We were in the great burial vaults below the castle, where the Barons Kralitz were ceremoniously entombed. Each Baron had been placed in his stone casket in his separate chamber, and each chamber lay, like beads on a necklace, adjacent to the next, so that we proceeded from the farthermost tombs of the early Barons Kralitz toward the unoccupied vaults. By immemorial custom, each tomb lay bare, an empty mausoleum, until the time had come for its use, when the great stone coffin, with the memorial inscription carved upon it, would be carried to its place. It was fitting, indeed, for the secret of Kralitz to be hidden here.

Abruptly I realized that I was alone, save for the bearded man with the disfiguring scar. The others had vanished, and, deep in my thoughts, I had not missed them. My companion stretched out his black-swathed arm and halted my progress, and I turned to him questioningly. He said in his sonorous voice, “I must leave you now. I must go back to my own place.” And he pointed to the way whence we had come.

I nodded, for I had already recognized my companions for what they were. I knew that each Baron Kralitz had been laid in his tomb, only to arise as a monstrous thing neither dead nor alive, to descend into the cavern below and take part in the evil saturnalia. I realized, too, that with the approach of dawn they had returned to their stone coffins, to lie in a deathlike trance until the setting sun should bring brief liberation. My own occult studies had enabled me to recognize these dreadful manifestations.

I bowed to my companion and would have proceeded on my way to the upper parts of the castle, but he barred my path. He shook his head slowly, his scar hideous in the phosphorescent gloom.

I said, “May I not go yet?”

He stared at me with tortured, smoldering eyes that had looked into hell itself, and he pointed to what lay beside me, and in a flash of nightmare realization I knew the secret of the curse of Kralitz. There came to me the knowledge that made my brain a frightful thing in which shapes of darkness would ever swirl and scream; the dreadful comprehension of when each Baron Kralitz was initiated into the brotherhood of blood. I knew—I knew—that no coffin had ever been placed unoccupied in the tombs, and I read upon the stone sarcophagus at my feet the inscription that made my doom known to me—my own name, “Franz, twenty-first Baron Kralitz.”

The Crystal Circe

Prologue

The stratoship from Cairo was late, and I was wondering whether the newsreel theatre or a couple of drinks would make time pass faster. It was early dusk. Through the immense, curved wall-window of the Manhattan Port Room I could see the landing field, with a silvery ship being rolled over the tarmac, and the skyscrapers of New York beyond.

Then I saw Arnsen.

It was Steve Arnsen, of course. No doubt about that. No other man had his great breadth of shoulders, his Herculean build. Ten years ago we had been classmates at Midwestern. I remembered rakehell, laughing, handsome Steve Arnsen very well, with his penchant for getting into trouble and out of it again, usually dragging Douglas O’Brien, his roommate, along with him like the helpless tail of a kite. Poor Doug! He was the antithesis of Arnsen, a thoughtful, studious boy with the shadow of a dream lurking always in his dark eyes. An idealist was Douglas O’Brien, as his Celtic ancestors had been. Strong friendship had existed between the two men—the mental communion of laughter and a dream.

Arnsen was looking up into the darkening sky, a queer tensity in his posture. He turned abruptly, came to a table near me, and sat down. From his pocket he took a small box. It snapped open. His gaze probed into the unknown thing that was hidden by his cupped hands.

I picked up my drink and went to Arnsen’s table. All I could see was the back of his sleek, massive head. Then he looked up—

If ever I saw hell in a man’s face, I saw it in Arnsen’s then. There was a dreadful longing, and an equally horrible hopelessness, the expression one might see on the face of a damned soul looking up from the pit at the shining gates forever beyond his reach.

And Arnsen’s face had been—ravaged.

The searing mark of some experience lay there, branded into his furrowed cheeks, his tightened lips, into his eyes where a sickness dwelt. No—this was not Steve Arnsen, the boy I had known at Midwestern. Youth had left him, and hope as well.

“Vail!” he said, smiling crookedly. “Good Lord, of all people! Sit down and have a drink. What are you doing here?”

I sought for words as I dropped into a chair. Arnsen watched me for a moment, and then shrugged. “You might as well say it. I’ve changed. Yeah—I know that.”

“What happened?” There was no need to fence.

His gaze went beyond me, to the dark sky above the landing field. “What happened? Why don’t you ask where Doug is? We always stuck together, didn’t we? Surprising to see me alone—”

He lit a cigarette and crushed it out with an impatient gesture. “You know, Vail, I’ve been hoping I’d run into you. This thing that’s been boiling inside of me—I haven’t been able to tell a soul. No one would have believed me. You may. The three of us kicked around together a lot, in the old days.”

“In trouble?” I asked. “Can I help?”

“You can listen,” he said. “I came back to Earth thinking I might be able to forget. It hasn’t worked. I’m waiting for the airliner to take me to Kansas Spaceport. I’m going to Callisto—Mars—somewhere. Earth isn’t the right place any more. But I’m glad we ran into each other, Vail. I want to talk. I want you to answer a question that’s been driving me almost insane.”

I signalled the waiter and got more drinks. Arnsen was silent till we were alone once more. Then he opened his cupped hands and showed me a small shagreen box. It clicked open. Nestling in blue velvet was a crystal, not large, but lovelier than any gem I had ever seen before.

Light drifted from it like the flow of slow water. The dim shining pulsed and waned. In the heart of the jewel was—

I tore my eyes away, staring at Arnsen. “What is it? Where did you get the thing? Not on Earth!”

He was watching the jewel, sick hopelessness on his face. “No—not on Earth. It came from a little asteroid out there—somewhere.” He waved vaguely toward the sky. “It isn’t charted. I took no reckonings. So I can never go back. Not that I want to, now. Poor Doug!”

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” I asked.

Arnsen looked at me strangely as he closed the box and slipped it back into his pocket. “Dead? I wonder. Wait till you know the story, Vail. About Doug’s lucky charm, and the dreams, and the Crystal Circe. …”

The slow horror of remembrance crept across his face. Out there, in space, something had happened. I thought: It must have been frightful to leave such traces on Arnsen.

He read my thought. “Frightful? Perhaps. It was quite lovely, too. You remember the old days, when I thought of nothing but raising hell. …”

After a long pause, I said, “Who was—the Crystal Circe?”

“I never knew her name. She told me, but my brain couldn’t understand it. She wasn’t human, of course. I called her Circe, after the enchantress who changed her lovers to swine.” Again he looked at the darkening sky. “Well—it began more than two years ago, in Maine. Doug and I were on a fishing trip when we ran into the meteorite. Little fishing we got done then! You know how Doug was—like a kid reading a fairy tale for the first time. And that meteorite—”

I

The Star-Gem

It lay in the crater it had dug for itself, a rounded arc visible about the brown earth. Already sumac and vines were mending the broken soil. Warm fall sunlight slanted down through the trees as Douglas O’Brien and Steve Arnsen plodded toward the distant gurgling of the stream, thoughts intent on catching the limit. No fingering tendril of menace thrust out to warn them.

“Mind your step,” Arnsen said, seeing the pit. He detoured around it and turned, realizing that O’Brien had not followed. “Come on, Doug. It’s getting late.”

O’Brien’s tanned young face was intent as he peered down into the hollow. “Wait a bit,” he said absently. “This looks—say! I’ll bet there’s a meteor down there!”

“So there’s a meteor. We’re not fishing for meteors, professor. They’re mostly iron, anyway. Gold, now, would be a different matter.”

O’Brien dropped lightly into the hole, scraping at the dirt with his fingers. “Wonder how long it’s been here? You run along, Steve. I’ll catch up with you.”

Arnsen sighed. O’Brien, with his vast enthusiasm for everything under the sun, was off again. There would be no stopping him now till he had satisfied his curiosity about the meteorite. Well, Arnsen had a new fly he was anxious to use, and it would soon be too late for good fishing. With a grunt he turned and pushed on toward the stream.

The fly proved excellent. In a surprisingly short time Arnsen had bagged the limit. There was no sign of O’Brien, and hunger made itself evident. Arnsen retraced his steps.

The younger man was sitting cross-legged beside the crater, holding something in his cupped hands and staring down at it. A swift glance showed Arnsen that the meteorite had been uncovered, and, apparently, cracked in two, each piece the size of a football. He stepped closer, to see what O’Brien held.

It was a gray crystal, egg-sized, filled with cloudy, frozen mists. It had been cut into a diamond-shaped, multifaced gem.

“Where’d you get that?” Arnsen asked.

O’Brien jumped, turning up a startled face. “Oh—hello, Steve. It was in the meteorite. Damnedest thing I ever saw. I saw the meteorite had a line of fission all around it, so I smacked the thing with a rock. It fell apart, and this was in the middle. Impossible, isn’t it?”

“Let’s see.” Arnsen reached for the jewel. O’Brien showed an odd reluctance in giving it up, but finally dropped it into the other’s outstretched hand.

The gem was cold, and yet not unpleasantly so. A tingling raced up Arnsen’s arm to his shoulder. He felt an abrupt, tiny shock.

O’Brien snatched the jewel. Arnsen stared at him.

“I’m not going to eat it. What—”

The boy grinned. “It’s my luck piece, Steve. My lucky charm. I’m going to have it pierced.”

“Better take it to a jeweler first,” Arnsen suggested. “It may be valuable.”

“No—I’ll keep it.” He slipped the gem into his pocket. “Any luck?”

“The limit, and I’m starving. Let’s get back to camp.”

Over their meal of fried trout, O’Brien fingered the find, staring into the cloudy depths of the gem as though he expected to find something there. Arnsen could sense a strange air of withdrawal about him. That night O’Brien fell asleep holding the jewel in his hand.

His sleep was troubled. O’Brien watched the boy, the vaguest hint of worry in his blue eyes. Once Doug lifted his hand and let it fall reluctantly. And once a flash of light seemed to lance out from the gem, brief and vivid as lightning. Imagination, perhaps. …

The moon sank. O’Brien stirred and sat up. Arnsen felt the other’s eyes upon him. He said softly, “Doug?”

“Yes. I wondered if you were awake.”

“Anything wrong?”

“There’s a girl. …” O’Brien said, and fell silent. After what seemed a long time, he went on: “Remember you said once that I’d never find a girl perfect enough to love?”

“I remember.”

“You were wrong. She’s like Deirdre of the Tuatha Dé, like Freya, like Ran of the northern seas. She has red hair, red as dying suns are red, and she’s a goddess like Deirdre, too. The Song of Solomon was made for her. ‘Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee. … I sleep, but my heart waketh; it is the voice of my beloved that knocketh.’ Steve,” he said, and his voice broke sharply. “It wasn’t a dream. I know it wasn’t. She exists, somewhere.” He stirred; Arnsen guessed that he was peering at the gray jewel.

There was nothing to say. The frosty brilliance of the stars gleamed through the laced branches above. A curious breath of the unearthly seemed to drop down from the vast abyss of the sky, chilling Arnsen’s heart.

In that moment he knew that his friend was ensorcelled.

Superstition—foolishness! He shook the thought away. But all the blood of his Northern ancestors rose up in him, the Vikings who had believed in Queen Ran of Ocean, in trolls and warlocks and the water-maidens who guard sunken gold.

“You’re dreaming,” he said stubbornly, more loudly than he thought. “It’s time we got back to the city. We’ve been here long enough.”

To his surprise, O’Brien agreed. “I think so. I’ve an idea I want to work on.” And the boy shut up like a clam, relaxing almost instantly into peaceful slumber.

But Arnsen did not sleep for a long time. The stars seemed too close and, somehow, menacing. From the black void, eyes watched—not human eyes, for all their loveliness. They were pools of darkest night, and stars glimmered within them.

He wished that O’Brien had not found the meteorite.

II

Lure of the Crystal

There was a change in the boy after that. The dream in his eyes did not fade, but he worked now with an intensity of purpose that had never existed before. Previously, the two had held routine jobs in a huge commercial organization. Without warning O’Brien quit. Arnsen followed suit, feeling the necessity for staying close to the younger man. Yet in the days to come, he amounted to little more than excess baggage.

O’Brien had plans. He borrowed money, scraped together enough to equip a small laboratory, and there he worked long hours. Arnsen helped when he could, though that was not often. He seldom knew exactly what the boy was trying to accomplish.

Once O’Brien said a queer thing. They were in the laboratory, awaiting the result of an experiment, and Arnsen was pacing back and forth nervously.

“I wish I knew what was up, Doug,” he said almost with anger. “We’ve been at this for months now. What do you expect, anyway? You’ve had no more than an ordinary training in physics.”

“The jewel helps,” O’Brien said. He took the gem from its suede bag and stared into the cloudy depths. “I catch—thoughts from it.”

Arnsen stopped short, staring. His face changed.

“You kidding?” he demanded.

O’Brien flushed. “Okay, try it,” he said, thrusting the stone at Arnsen, who took it rather reluctantly. “Shut your eyes and let your mind go blank. That does it, sometimes.”

“I—all right.” Arnsen squeezed his eyes closed and thought of nothing. Instantly a sick, horrible feeling swept through him—a terrible yearning such as he had never known before. So might the Assassins feel, deprived of the magic drug that took them to Paradise. An Assassin exiled, cast into outer darkness.

A face swam into view, lovely and strange beyond imagination. Only a glimpse he had, blotted out by rainbow, coruscating lights that darted and flashed like elfin fireflies. Then darkness, once more, and the frightful longing—for what?

He let go of the gem; O’Brien caught it as it fell. The boy smiled wryly.

“I wondered if you’d get it, too. Did you see her?”

“I saw nothing,” Arnsen snarled, whirling toward the door. “I felt nothing!”

“Yet you’re afraid. Why? I don’t fear her, or the stone.”

“The more fool you,” Arnsen cast over his shoulder as he went out. He felt sick and weak, as though unnameable vistas had opened before him. There was no explanation for what he had felt—no sane explanation, at least.

And yet there might be, he thought, as he paced about the yard, smoking an endless chain of cigarettes. Telepathy, thought-transference—he had simply caught what was in O’Brien’s mind. But it was horrible to know that Doug was feeling that soul-sick craving for the goddess-girl who could not exist.

O’Brien came out of the laboratory, eyes aglow. “It’s done,” he said, trying to repress his triumph. “We’ve got the alloy at last. That last treatment did the trick.”

Arnsen felt vague apprehension. He tried to congratulate O’Brien, but his tone rang false to his own ears. The boy smiled understandingly.

“It’s been good of you to string along, Steve. The thing will pay off now. Only—I’ll need a lot of money.”

“You’ll have a lot. Plenty of companies will be bidding for the process.”

O’Brien said, “I want enough to buy a spaceship.”

Arnsen whistled. “That’s a lot. Even for a small boat.” His eyes narrowed. “Why do you want it?”

“I’m going to find Deirdre,” the other said simply. “She’s out there, somewhere.” He tilted his head back. “And I’ll find her.”

“Space is pretty big.”

“I’ve a guide.” O’Brien took out the gray gem. “It wants to go to her, too. It wants to go back. It isn’t really alive here on Earth, you know. And I’m not just dreaming, Steve. How do you suppose I managed to make this alloy—the perfect plastic, tougher than beryllium steel, lighter than aluminum, a conductor or nonconductor of electricity depending on the mix. … You know I couldn’t have done it alone.”

“You did it.”

O’Brien touched the jewel. “I found out how to do it. There’s life in here, Steve. Not earthly life, but intelligent. I could understand a little, not much. Enough to work out the alloy. I had to do that first, so I could get money enough to buy a spaceship.”

“You don’t know how to pilot in space.”

“We’ll hire a pilot.”

“We?”

He grinned. “I’m going to prove my point. You don’t believe in Deirdre. But you’ll see her, Steve. The jewel will guide us. It wants to go home—so we’ll take it there.”

Arnsen scowled and turned away, his big shoulders tense with unreasoning anger. He found himself hating the imaginary being O’Brien had created. Deirdre! His fists clenched.

She did not exist. The major planets and satellites had been explored; the inhabited ones held nothing remotely human. Martians were huge-headed, spindle-legged horrors; Venusians were scaled amphibians, living in a state of feudalism and constant warfare. The other planets … the avian, hollow-boned Callistans were closest to humanity, but by no stretch of the imagination could they be called beautiful. And Deirdre was beautiful. Imaginary or not, she was lovely as a goddess.

Damn her!

But that did no good. O’Brien was not to be turned from his purpose. With relentless, swift intensity he patented the alloy process, sold it to the highest bidder, and purchased a light space cruiser. He found a pilot, a leather-skinned, tough, tobacco-chewing man named Tex Hastings, who could be depended on to do what he was told and keep his mouth shut.

O’Brien chafed with impatience till the cruiser jetted off from the spaceport. The closer he came to achieving his goal, the more nervous he grew. The jewel he kept clenched in one hand most of the time. Arnsen noticed that a dim brilliance was beginning to glow within it as the ship plunged farther out toward the void.

Hastings cast quizzical glances at O’Brien, but did what he was told. He confided in Arnsen.

“We haven’t even bothered with charts. It’s screwy, but I’m not kicking. Only this isn’t piloting. Your friend just points at a star-sector and says, ‘Go there.’ Funny.” He scratched his leathery cheek, faded eyes intent on Arnsen’s face.

The big man nodded. “I know. But it isn’t up to me, Hastings. I’m supercargo.”

“Yeah. Well, if you—want any help—you can count on me. I’ve seen space-madness before.”

Arnsen snorted. “Space-madness!”

Hastings’ eyes were steady. “I may be wrong, sure. But anything can happen out here. We’re not on Earth, Mr. Arnsen. Earth laws don’t apply. Neither does logic. We’re on the edge of the unknown.”

“I never thought you were superstitious.”

“I’m not. Only I’ve been around, and seen a lot. That crystal Mr. O’Brien lugs around with him—I never saw anything like that before.” He waited, but Arnsen didn’t speak. “All right, then. I’ve known things to drift in from Outside. Funny things, damn funny. The Solar System’s like a Sargasso. It catches flotsam from other systems, even other universes, for all I know. One rule I’ve learned—when you can’t guess the answer, it’s a good idea to stay clear.”

Arnsen grunted moodily, staring out a port at the glaring brilliance of the stars.

“Ever heard any stories about jewels like that one?”

Hastings shook his closely-cropped head. “No. But I saw a wreck once, Sunside of Pluto—a ship that hadn’t been designed in this System. It was deserted; God knows how long it had been out there. Or where it came from. Inside, it wasn’t designed for human beings at all. It came from Outside, of course, and Outside is a big place. That jewel, now—” He bit the end off a quid of tobacco.

“What about it?”

“It’s an Outside sort of thing. And your friend isn’t acting normal. It may add up to trouble. It may not. My point is that I’m going to keep my eyes open, and you’d be wise to do the same thing.”

Arnsen went back to the galley and fried eggs, angry with himself for listening to Hastings’ hints. He was more than ever uncomfortable. Back on Earth, it had been easier to disbelieve in any unknown powers that the gray jewel might possess; here, it was different. Space was the hinterland, the waste that bordered the cryptic Outside. The forward step in science that threw open the gates of interplanetary travel had, in a way, taken man back in time to a day when he cowered in a cave, fearing the powers of the dark that lurked in the unknown jungle. Space travel had broken barriers. It opened a door that, perhaps, should have remained forever closed.

On the shores of space strange flotsam was cast. Arnsen’s gaze probed out through the port, to the red globe of Mars, the blinding brilliance of the Milky Way, the enigmatic shadow of the Coal Sack. Out there anything might lie. Life grown from a matrix neither Earthly nor even three-dimensional. Charles Fort had hinted at it; scientists had hazarded wild guesses. The cosmic womb of space, from which blasphemous abortions might be cast.

So they went on, day after day, skirting Mars and plunging on into the thick of the asteroid belt. It was uncharted country now, a Sargasso of remnants from an exploded planet that had existed here eons ago. Sounds rang loudly in the narrow confines of the space ship. Nervousness gripped all three of the men. But O’Brien found comfort in the gray crystal. His eyes held a glowing light of triumph.

“We are coming closer, Steve,” he said. “Deirdre isn’t far away now.”

“Damn Deirdre,” Arnsen said—but not aloud.

The ship went on, following the blind course O’Brien pointed. Hastings shook his head in grim silence, and trained his passengers in the use of the spacesuits. Few of the asteroids had atmosphere, and it became increasingly evident that the destination was an asteroid. …

III

The Singing Crystals

They found it at last, a jagged, slowly revolving ball that looked incredibly desolate, slag from some solar furnace. The telescope showed no life. The ball had hardened as it whirled, and the molten rock had frozen instantly, in frigid space, into spiky, giant crags and stalagmites. No atmosphere, no water, no sign of life in any form.

The crystal O’Brien held had changed. A pale light streamed from it. O’Brien’s face was tensely eager.

“This is it. Set the ship down, Hastings.”

The pilot made a grimace, but bent toward the controls. It was a ticklish task at best, for he had to match the ship’s speed to the speed of the asteroid’s revolution and circle in, describing a narrowing spiral. Rocket ships are not built for maneuverability. They blast their way to ground and up again through sheer roaring power.

She settled bumpily on the iron-hard surface of the asteroid, and Arnsen looked through the thick visiglass at desolation that struck a chill to his heart. Life had never existed here. It was a world damned in the making, a tiny planetoid forever condemned to unbearable night and silence. It was one with the darkness. The sun-glare, in the absence of atmosphere, made sharp contrasts between light and jet shadow. The fingers of rock reached up hungrily, as though searching for warmth. There was nothing menacing about the picture. It was horrible in its lifelessness; that was all.

It was not intended for life. Arnsen felt himself an intruder.

O’Brien met his glance. The boy was smiling, rather wryly.

“I know,” he said. “It doesn’t look very promising, does it? But this is the place.”

“Maybe—a million years ago,” Arnsen said skeptically. “There’s nothing here now.”

Silently O’Brien put the crystal in the giant’s hand.

From it a pulse of triumph burst out! Exultation! The psychic wave shook Arnsen with its intensity, wiped doubt from his face. Invisibly and intangibly, the jewel shouted its delight!

The glow within it waxed brighter.

Hastings said abruptly, “Time to eat. Metabolism’s higher in space. We can’t afford to miss a meal.”

“I’m going out,” O’Brien said.

But Arnsen seconded the pilot. “We’re here now. You can afford to wait an hour or so. And I’m hungry.”

They opened thermocans in the galley and gulped the hot food standing. The ship had suddenly become a prison. Even Hastings was touched with the thirst to know what awaited them outside.

“We circled the asteroid,” he said at last, his voice argumentative. “There’s nothing here, Mr. O’Brien. We saw that.”

But O’Brien was hurrying back to the control cabin.

The suits were cumbersome, even in the slight gravity. Hastings tested the oxygen tanks strapped on the backs, and checked the equipment with stringent care. A leak would be fatal on this airless world.

So they went out through the airlock, and Arnsen, for one, felt his middle tightening with the expectation of the unknown. His breathing sounded loud and harsh within the helmet. The tri-polarized faceplates of the helmets were proof against sun-glare, but they could not minimize the horrible desolation of the scene.

A world untouched—more lifeless, more terrible, than frigid Jotunheim, where the Frost Giants dwelt. Arnsen’s heavily-leaded boots thumped solidly on the slag. There was no dust here, no sign of erosion, for there was no air.

In O’Brien’s hand the crystal flamed with milky pallor. The boy’s face was thin and haggard with desire. Arnsen, watching, felt hot fury against the incubus that had worked its dark spell on the other.

He could do nothing—only follow and wait. His hand crept to the weighted blackjack in his belt.

He saw the hope slowly fade from O’Brien’s eyes. Against his will he said, “We’re only on the surface, Doug. Underground—”

“That’s right. Maybe there’s an entrance, somewhere. But I don’t know. We may be a thousand years too late, Steve.” His gaze clung to the crystal.

It pulsed triumphantly. Pale flame lanced joyously from it. Alive it was; Arnsen had no doubt of that now. Alive, and exulting to be home once more.

Years too late? There was not the slightest trace of any artifact on this airless planetoid. The bleakness of outer space itself cast a veil over the nameless world. The three men plodded on.

In the end, they went back to the ship.

The quick night of the tiny world had fallen. The flaming corona of the sun had vanished; stars leaped into hard, jeweled brilliance against utter blackness. The sky blazed with cold fires.

Lifeless, alien, strange. It was the edge of the unknown.

They slept at last; metabolism was high, and they needed to restore their tissues. Hours later Arnsen came to half wakefulness. In his bunk he rose on one elbow, wondering what had roused him. His mind felt dulled. He could scarcely tell whether or not he was dreaming.

Across the ship a man’s head and shoulders were silhouetted against a port, grotesquely large and distorted. Beyond, the stars blazed.

They moved. They swirled in a witch-dance of goblin lanterns, dancing, whirling, spiraling. Blue, yellow, amethyst and milky pearl, streaks of light golden as the eye of a lioness—and nameless colors, not earthly, made a patterned arabesque as they danced their elfin saraband there in the airless dark.

The dark swallowed Arnsen. Slumber took him. …

Slowly, exhaustedly, he came back to consciousness. His head ached; his tongue was thick. For a moment he lay quietly, trying to remember.

Dream? Arnsen cursed, threw his blankets aside, and sprang from the bunk.

O’Brien was gone. Tex Hastings was gone. Two spacesuits had vanished from their racks.

Arnsen’s face twisted into a savage mask. He knew, now, what had been so wrong about his vision of the night. The man he had glimpsed at the port had been outside the ship. Doug?

Or Hastings. It did not matter. Both men were gone. He was alone, on the mystery world.

Arnsen set his jaw, gulped caffeine tablets to clear his head, and wrenched a spacesuit from its hooks. He donned it, realizing that sunlight once more was pouring down from the distant sun.

Soon he was ready. He went out of the ship, climbed atop it, and stared around. Nothing. The bleak, light-and-shadow pattern of the asteroid stretched to the sharply curving horizon all around. There was nothing else.

Nor were there tracks in the iron-hard slag. He would have to search at random, by pure guesswork. In the low gravity his leap to the ground scarcely jarred him. He gripped the billy at his left and moved forward, toward a high pinnacle in the distance.

He found nothing.

Worst of all, perhaps, was the horrible loneliness that oppressed him. He was too close to Outside now. He was the only living thing in a place never meant for human life. The ghastly bleakness of the asteroid sank like knife-blades into his mind, searing it coldly. There was no relief when he looked up. The distant sun, with its corona, was infinitely far away. The rest of the sky held stars, remote, not twinkling as on Earth, but shining with a cold intensity, a pale fury relentless and eternal. In the light the heat seared him through his armor; in the shadows he shivered with cold.

He went on, sick with hate, seeking the unknown thing that had taken Doug.

The boy was a poet, a dreamer, a fool, easy victim for the terror that haunted the asteroid.

Exhausted, he turned back. His air supply was running low, and there was no sign of either Doug or Hastings. He headed for the ship. …

It was further than he had thought. He sighted it at last, beneath a towering stalagmite that thrust up into the harsh sunlight, and his steps quickened. Why hadn’t he thought to bring extra cylinders of oxygen?

The lock stuck under his gloved, awkward fingers; he wrenched at it savagely. At last the great valve swung open. He went through the airlock, opened his visiplate, and took great breaths of the fresher air. Oxygen cylinders were racked near by; he swung several into position on his back and clamped them into place. He gulped more caffeine tablets.

Some instinct made him turn and look back through the port. Over the uneven ground a spacesuited figure was staggering, a quarter of a mile distant. …

Arnsen’s heart jumped. In one swift motion he clamped shut his visiplate and leaped for the airlock. It seemed an eternity before he was outside, leaping, racing, straining toward the man who had fallen helpless, a motionless shadow amid the glare. Doug? Hastings?

It was O’Brien, his young face gray with exhaustion and flushed with oxygen-thirst. For a moment Arnsen thought the boy was dead. He thrust one arm under O’Brien’s back, lifting him; with the other hand he fumbled at an auxiliary air-hose, thrusting it into the valve in O’Brien’s chin-plate as he ripped away the useless hose. Oxygen flowed into the boy’s suit.

His nostrils distended as he drank in the precious air. Arnsen watched, teeth bared in a mirthless grin. Good! Color came back to O’Brien’s cheeks—a healthy flush under the deep tan. His eyes opened, looked into Arnsen’s.

“Couldn’t find her,” he whispered, his voice hollow through the audiophone. “Deirdre—I couldn’t find her, Steve.”

Arnsen said, “What happened, Doug?”

O’Brien took a deep breath and shook his head. “I woke up—something warned me. This.” He unclasped his gloved hand and showed the milky crystal. “It knew—she—was close. I felt it. I woke up, went to a port, and saw the—the lights. Hastings was out there. She’d called him, I guess. He was running after the lights. … I had sense enough to put on my suit. Then I followed. But Hastings was too fast for me. I followed till I lost him. Miles—hours. Then I saw my oxygen was low. I tried to get back to the ship—”

He tried to smile. “Why did she call Hastings, Steve? Why not me?”

Arnsen felt cold. “We’re getting off this asteroid. Right away.”

“Leaving Hastings?”

“We—I’ll look for him myself. There’s life here, malignant life. Plenty dangerous.”

“Not evil. No. Beyond evil, beyond good. I’m not going, Steve.”

“You’re going if I have to hog-tie you.”

O’Brien’s gloved hand tightened on the milky crystal. “Deirdre!” he said.

And, in the emptiness above them, a glow brightened.

There was no other warning. Arnsen tilted back his head to see—the incredible.

Deirdre, he thought. Then, unbidden, another name leaped into his mind.

Circe!

Circe of Colchis, goddess of Aea—Circe, Daughter of the Day, who changed men to swine! Circe—more than human!

For this was no human figure that hovered above them. It seemed to be a girl, unclad, reclining in nothingness, her floating hair tinted like the rays of a dying sun. Her body swept in lines of pure beauty, long-limbed and gracious. Her eyes were veiled; long lashes hid them.

There was tenderness in her face, and aloofness, and alienage. There was beauty there—not entirely human beauty.

Rainbow crystals garmented her.

Some large, some small, multifaceted gems danced and shimmered against the blackness of the sky and the whiteness of Circe’s body. Moon-yellow, amber-gold, blue as the sea off Capri, green as the pine-clad hills of Earth—angry scarlet and lambent dragon-green!

With some distantly sane corner of his mind, Arnsen realized that it was impossible for any living being to exist without protection on the frigid, airless surface of the asteroid. Then he knew that both air and warmth surrounded the girl.

The crystals protected her. He knew that, somehow.

O’Brien twisted in his arms. He saw the girl, tried to spring free. Arnsen gripped him.

The boy swung a jolting blow that jarred the giant’s helmet. His mailed glove smashed against the metal plate. Dazed and giddy, Arnsen fell back, clawing at O’Brien. His fingers slipped along the other’s arm; he felt something drop into his hand, and clutched it.

Then O’Brien was free. He wrenched an oxygen-tank from Arnsen’s shoulders, whirled, and took a step toward the girl. She was further away now. …

Arnsen staggered up. His head was throbbing furiously. Too late he realized that, in the scuffle, his air-valve had fouled. He fumbled at it with clumsy fingers—and fell.

His helmet thudded solidly against hard slag. Blackness took him. …

IV

Circe the Immortal

It was dark when he woke. Oxygen was once more pouring into his suit; he had managed to open the valve before falling. Far above, the distant, corona-crowned sun flamed against the starry backdrop. The ship lay beneath its crag.

But of O’Brien there was no trace whatever.

After that, something akin to madness came to Arnsen. Again the utter loneliness of space crushed down on him, with suffocating terror. Doug was gone, like Hastings. Where?

He searched, then, and in the days thereafter. He grew haggard and gaunt, drugging himself with stimulants so he could drive himself beyond his limit. Hour after hour he searched the tiny world, squinting against sun-glare, peering into black shadow, shouting O’Brien’s name, cursing bitter, searing oaths that sounded futile to his ears. Time dragged on into an eternity. He had been here forever. He could not remember a time when he had not been plodding across the asteroid, watching for a glimpse of a spacesuited figure, of dancing jewels of fire, of a slim white body. …

Who was she? What was she? Not human—no. And the crystals, what were they?

He returned to the ship one day, shoulders slumping, and passed the spot where he had seen the girl. Something on the ground caught his eye. A pearly, shining gem.

He remembered his scuffle with O’Brien, and the thing that had dropped into his glove.

The jewel, of course. It had lain here, unnoticed, for many revolutions of the asteroid.

He picked it up, staring into the milky depths. A pulse tingled up his arm, fingering into his mind. A pulse of longing—

The girl had appeared when O’Brien summoned her.

Perhaps it would work again. There was no other hope.

But he could not call her Deirdre. He gripped the hard crystal. His thought probed out, forceful and summoning.

“Circe!”

Nothing. The eternal silence, the cold blaze of the stars. …

“Circe!”

The gem in his hand leaped with eagerness. In emptiness above him a rainbow glitter of coruscating light flamed. The crystals—and, within them, the girl!

She had not changed. Lovely and alien, she lay among her dancing, shining gems, and her lashes still veiled the cryptic depth of her eyes. Arnsen stumbled forward.

“Where’s O’Brien?” His voice cracked, harsh and inhuman. “Damn you! Where is he?”

She did not look at him. Her body seemed to recede. The jewels swirled into swift motion about her.

Arnsen lurched on. His mind felt on fire. He whipped out his elastic billy and plunged toward the girl.

She was not there. She had drifted back amid the rainbow crystals.

Arnsen could not overtake her. It was like following a will-o’-the-wisp, a torch of St. Elmo’s fire. But he did not take his eyes from the girl. More than once he fell. She was leading him away from the ship, he knew. That did not matter. Not if she also led him to Doug.

What had she done with the boy? He hated her, hated her relentless inhumanity, her incredible beauty. Teeth bared, red-rimmed eyes glaring, Arnsen plunged on in a nightmare race across the face of the silent asteroid.

Hours later, it seemed, she vanished in black shadow under a thrusting pinnacle of slag. Arnsen followed, reeling with fatigue, expecting to cannon into a rock wall. But the darkness remained intangible. The ground sloped down beneath his leaded boots. Suddenly light shone through a cleft at his side.

Pale, warm, liquid light, it drifted up from a slanting corridor in the rock. Far down the passage Arnsen could see the cloud of dancing flames that marked the girl’s crystal attendants. He stumbled on.

Down he went, and down, till at last the passage turned again in the distance. He rounded the bend—and stopped, blinded and dazed.

As his vision adjusted itself, Arnsen made out a pillar of fire that rose from floor to ceiling of the cavern before him. Yet it was not fire. It was something beyond human knowledge. Pure energy, perhaps, wrenched from the locked heart of the atom itself, silently thundering and pouring up like a geyser. The pillar shook. It wavered and rocked, coldly white, intensely brilliant, like a living thing blazing with a power inconceivable.

Walls and floor and roof of the cavern were crusted with jewels. The rainbow crystals clung quivering, thousands of them, some tiny, others huge. They watched.

They were alive.

The girl stood near Arnsen. A score of the jewels pressed against her lovingly. They caressed her. The veiled eyes did not meet Arnsen’s. But she lifted her arm.

There was a movement in Arnsen’s gloved hand. The milky gem stirred; a pulse of eagerness beat out from it.

It leaped free—raced toward Circe.

She caught it, flung it at the shaking tower of flame.

Into the pillar’s blazing heart the crystal darted.

The fires sank—rose again. Spewed forth the jewel.

No longer milky—no longer dulled. It blazed with fantastic brilliance! Vital energy streamed from it; it whirled and danced joyously with sheer delight. It was like a sleeper suddenly awakened.

It spun toward Circe, pulsed madly with the intoxication of life.

The girl rose, featherlight, without gravity, drifting across the cavern to a passage-mouth that gaped in the wall. The jewels clustered around it swayed toward her. Some broke free, rushing in her train.

She vanished into the portal.

The spell that held Arnsen broke. He flung himself after her, too late. Already she was gone. But along the corridor jewels floated, bright, shining, alive.

And suddenly strong arms were around Arnsen. The face of O’Brien was before him. O’Brien, no longer wearing his spacesuit, haggard, and yet aflame with a vital something that glowed in his dark eyes. O’Brien—laughing.

“Steve!” His voice shook. “So you followed me. I’m glad. Come in here—it’s all right.”

The energy went out of Arnsen, leaving him weak and exhausted. He cast one glance up the empty corridor and followed O’Brien through a cave-opening into a little room cut out of solid rock. He felt the other’s fingers loosening his helmet, removing the bulky spacesuit. Some remnant of caution returned.

“The oxygen—”

“There’s air here. It’s a place of wonders, Steve!”

There was air. Cool, sweet, and refreshing, it crept into Arnsen’s lungs. He looked around. The little cavern was empty, save for dozens of the rainbow crystals clinging to the walls.

They watched alertly.

O’Brien pressed him back, made a quick gesture. A jewel floated forward, hovering over Arnsen’s face. He felt water trickling between his lips, and, too exhausted for wonder, swallowed gratefully.

“You need sleep,” O’Brien said. “But it’s all right, Steve. It’s all right, I tell you. You’ll hear all about it when you wake up. Time enough then. You’ll see Deirdre.”

Arnsen tried to struggle up. “I won’t—”

O’Brien signalled again. Another gem drifted close. From it a gray breath of cloud floated, perfume-sweet, soporific. It crept into Arnsen’s nostrils. …

And he slept.

V

The Jewel-Folk

The room was unchanged when he woke once more. O’Brien sat cross-legged, looking into space. His face had altered, had acquired a new peace and maturity.

He heard Arnsen’s slight movement and turned.

“Awake? How do you feel?”

“All right. Well enough to hear explanations,” Arnsen said with a flash of temper. “I’ve been nearly crazy—looking for you all over this damned asteroid. I still think I’m crazy after all this.”

O’Brien chuckled. “I can imagine. I felt pretty upset for a while, till the crystals explained.”

“The crystals what?”

“They’re alive, Steve. The ultimate product of evolution, perhaps. Crystalline life. Perfect machines. They can do almost anything. You saw how one created drinkable water, and—well, look here.” He beckoned.

A jewel floated close. From it a jet of flame shot, red and brilliant. O’Brien waved his hand; the gem drifted back to its place.

“They can convert energy into matter, you see. It’s logical, when you forget about hidebound science. All matter’s made up of energy. It’s simply locked in certain patterns—certain matrixes. But inside the atom—the framework of matter—you’ve got nothing but energy. These crystals build patterns out of basic energy.”

Arnsen shook his head. “I don’t see it.”

O’Brien’s voice grew deeper, stronger. “Long ago—very long ago, and in another galaxy, light-years away, there was a civilization far beyond ours. Deirdre is a child of that race. It was—mighty. It passed through our culture-level and went far beyond. Till machines were no longer needed. Instead, the race made the crystals—super-machines, super-robots, with incredible powers locked in them. They supplied all the needs of Deirdre’s race.”

“Well?”

“This asteroid doesn’t belong to our family of planets. It’s from that other system, in the neighboring galaxy. It drifted here by accident, I think. I don’t quite know the facts of it. It came under the gravitational pull of a comet, or a wandering planet, and was yanked out into space. Eventually it settled into this orbit. Deirdre didn’t care. Her mind isn’t like ours. The crystals supplied all her needs—made air, gave her food and water. Everything she desired.”

Arnsen said, “How long has this been going on?”

“Forever, perhaps,” O’Brien said quietly. “I think Deirdre’s immortal. At least she is a goddess. Do you remember the crystal I found in that meteorite?”

“Yeah. I remember.”

“It came from here. It was one of Deirdre’s servants. Somehow it was lost—wandered away. Cosmic dust collected on it as it moved in an orbit around the sun—for thousands of years, perhaps. Iron atoms. At last it was a meteorite, with the crystal at its heart. So it fell on Earth, and I found it, and it wanted to go home, back to Deirdre. It told me that. I felt its thoughts. It drew me here, Steve—”

Arnsen shivered. “It’s unbelievable. And that girl isn’t human.”

“Have you looked into her eyes?”

“No—”

“She isn’t human. She is a goddess.”

A new thought came to Arnsen. “Where’s Tex Hastings? Here?”

“I haven’t seen him,” O’Brien said. “I don’t know where he is.”

“Uh-huh. What have you been doing?”

“She brought me here. The crystals took care of me. And Deirdre—” He stood up. “She’s summoning me. Wait, Steve—I’ll be back.”

Arnsen put out a detaining hand; it was useless. O’Brien stepped through the portal and was gone. A dozen crystals swept after him.

Arnsen followed, refusing to admit that he, too, wanted another glimpse of the girl. Down the passage he went in O’Brien’s trail, till the boy vanished from sight. Arnsen increased his pace. He halted on the threshold of the cavern where the pillar of flame swept up to the roof.

He had thought it thundered. It did not—it rushed up in utter silence, shaking and swaying with the surcharged intensity of its power. The walls were crusted with the dancing, watching crystals. Now Arnsen saw that some were dull gray, motionless and dead. These were sprinkled among the others, and there were thousands of them.

O’Brien paced forward—and suddenly Circe was standing with her back to Arnsen, the gems clustering about her caressingly. She lifted her arms, and O’Brien turned.

A great hunger leaped into his face. The girl did not move, and O’Brien came into the circle of her arms.

So swift was her movement that Arnsen did not realize it till too late. The slender arms slid free; Circe stepped back a pace—and thrust O’Brien toward the tower of flame!

He stumbled, off balance, and the crystals leaped from Circe’s body. They were no longer a garment. They pressed against O’Brien, forcing him away, thrusting, pushing. Arnsen cried out and sprang forward—

O’Brien reeled, was engulfed by the flame-pillar. The pouring torrent swallowed him.

Simultaneously from the farther wall a gray, dead jewel detached itself and shot toward the tower of fire. Into the blazing heart it fled and vanished.

The pillar sank down. It pulsed—thundered up again, silently streaming like a torrent toward the roof. And out of its depths the jewel came transformed.

Sentiment, blazing, shining with a myriad hues, it swirled toward Circe. Scintillant with delight, it hovered about her caressingly.

It was alive!

Arnsen cried out, flung himself forward. Circe turned to face him. Still her eyes were hidden; her face was aloofly lovely and inhuman.

The crystal swept toward Arnsen, cupping itself into his outthrust hand. From it a wave of mad delight rushed into his brain.

It was Doug—it was Doug! Frozen with sick horror, Arnsen halted, while thoughts poured from the sentient crystal into his mind.

“The—the gray jewel—” His tongue fumbled thickly with the words. He looked up to where the dull gems clung among the shining ones.

“Machines, Steve.” The thought lanced into him from the living thing he held. “Robots, not energized. Only one thing can energize them—life-force, vital energy. The flame-pillar does that, through atomic transmutation. It’s not earthly science—it was created in another galaxy. There, Deirdre’s race had slave people to energize the crystals.”

“Doug—she’s killed you—”

“I’m not dead. I’m alive, Steve, more alive than I ever have been. All the crystals—Martians, Venusians, beings from other systems and galaxies that landed on this asteroid. Deirdre took them for her own. As she took Hastings. As she has taken me. We serve her now—”

The jewel tore free from Arnsen’s grip. It fled back to Circe, brushing her lips, caressing her hair. The other gems, scores of them, danced about the girl like elfin lovers.

Arnsen stood there, sick and nauseated. He understood now. The intricate crystal machines were too complicated to work unless life-force energized them. Circe, who took the minds of living beings and prisoned them in silicate robot-forms.

They felt no resentment. They were content to serve.

“Damn you!” Arnsen mouthed, and took a step forward. His fists balled. His fingers ached to curl about the girl’s slender neck and snap it with sharp, vicious pressure.

Her lashes swept up. Her eyes looked into his.

They were black as space, with stars prisoned in their depths. They were not human eyes.

Now Arnsen knew why O’Brien had asked if he had looked into Deirdre’s eyes. They were her secret and her power. Her human form was not enough to enchant and enslave the beings of a hundred worlds. It was the soul-shaking alienage that looked out of Circe’s eyes.

Through those dark windows Arnsen saw the Outside. He saw the gulf between the stars, and no longer did he fear it. For Circe was a goddess.

She was above and beyond humanity. A great void opened between her and the man, the void of countless evolutionary cycles, and a million light-years of space. But across that gulf something reached and met and clung, and Arnsen’s senses drowned in a soul-shaking longing for Circe.

It was her power. She could control emotion, as she could control the crystals, and the power of her mind reached into Arnsen and wrung sanity and self from it. Only in outer semblance was she even slightly human. Beside her Arnsen was an animal, and like an animal he could be controlled.

She blazed like a flame before him. He forgot O’Brien, forgot Hastings and Earth and his purpose. Her power clutched him and left him helpless.

The grip upon his mind relaxed. Circe, confident of her triumph, let her eyelids droop.

And Arnsen’s mind came back in a long, slow cycle from the gulfs between the stars, drifted leisurely back into the crystalline cavern and the presence of the goddess—and woke.

Not wholly. He would never be whole again. But he felt the crowding vibrations of the countless prisoners in crystal who had gone the way his own feet were walking now, bewildered, drunken and drowning in emotions without name, sacrificing identity without knowing what they sacrificed. Flung into eternity at the whim of a careless goddess to whom all life-forms were one. …

She was turning half away as realization came back to Arnsen. She had lifted one round white arm to let the crystals cascade along it. She did not even see him lurch forward.

What he did was without thought. The emotions she had called up in him drowned all thought. He only knew that he must do what he did—he could not yet think why.

The breath hissed between his lips as he stumbled forward and thrust Circe into the flame. …

From the roof a gray jewel dropped. The tower of fire paused in its rhythm—beat out strongly again. From it a crystal leaped. It hung motionless in the air, and Arnsen seized it with shaking fingers. He felt great, racking sobs shake him. His fingers caressed the jewel, pressed it to his lips.

“Circe!” he whispered, eyes blind with tears. “Circe—”

Epilogue

Arnsen had not spoken for a long time. Through the window I could see the Cairo stratoship being wheeled into place. Beyond, the lights of New York glowed yellow.

“And so you came back,” I said.

He nodded. “And so I came back. I put on my spacesuit and went back to the ship. The crystals didn’t try to stop me. They seemed to be waiting. I don’t know for what. I blasted off and headed Sunward. I knew enough to do that. After a while I began to send out SOS signals, and a patrol boat picked me up. That was all.”

“Doug—”

“Still there, I suppose. With all the others. Vail, why did I do it? Was I right?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but cupped the little shagreen box in his hand. He didn’t open it.

“No,” he went on, “you can’t answer me; nobody can. Circe took the soul out of my body, and I’m empty now. There’s no peace for me on Earth, or in the spaceways. And out there, somewhere, on that asteroid, the crystals are waiting—waiting for Circe to come back—

“But she will never come back. She will stay with me till I die, and then she’ll be buried with me in space. In the meantime—Circe doesn’t like it here on Earth. So I’m going out again. Sometime, perhaps, I’ll take her back Outside, to the unknown place from which she came. I don’t know—”

An audio announced the plane for Kansas. Arnsen stood up, gave me a smile from his ravaged face, and without a word went out.

I never saw him again.

I think that beyond Pluto, beyond the farthest limits of the system, a little cruiser may be fleeing into the void, controls set, racing, perhaps, for the darkness of the Coal Sack. In the ship is a man and a jewel. He will die, but I do not think that even in death his hand will relax its grip on that jewel.

And the ship will go on, into the blackness which has no name.

War-Gods of the Void

I

Earth Consul, Goodenow, tossed a packet of microfilms to Vanning, and said, “You’re crazy. The man you’re after isn’t here. Only damn fools ever come to Venus—and don’t ask me why I’m here. You’re crazy to think you’ll find a fugitive hiding on this planet.”

Jerry Vanning, earth state investigator, moved his stocky body uneasily. He had a headache. He had had it ever since the precarious landing through the tremendous wind-maelstroms of the pea-soup Venusian atmosphere. With an effort he focused his vision on the micro-projector Goodenow handed him, and turned the tiny key. Inside the box, a face sprang into view. He sighed and slid another of the passport-films into place. He had never seen the man before.

“Routine checkup,” he said patiently. “I got a tip Callahan was heading here, and we can’t afford to take chances.”

The consul mopped his sweating, beefy face and cursed Venusian air-conditioning units. “Who is this guy Callahan, anyway?” he asked. “I’ve heard a little—but we don’t get much news on the frontier.”

“Political refugee,” Vanning said, busy with the projector. “Potentially, one of the most dangerous men in the System. Callahan started his career as a diplomat, but there wasn’t enough excitement for him.”

The consul fumbled with a cigar. “Can you tell me any more?”

“Well—Callahan got hold of a certain secret treaty that must be destroyed. If he shows it in the right places, he might start a revolution, particularly on Callisto. My idea is that he’s hiding out till the excitement dies down—and then he’ll head for Callisto.”

Goodenow pursed his lips. “I see. But you won’t find him here.”

Vanning jerked his thumb toward a window. “The jungle—”

“Hell, no!” the consul said decidedly. “Venus, Mr. Vanning, is not Earth. We’ve got about two hundred settlements scattered here and there; the rest is swamp and mountains. When a man gets lost, we wait a few days and then write out a death certificate. Because once an Earthman leaves a settlement, his number’s up.”

“So?”

“So Callahan isn’t here. Nobody comes here,” Goodenow said bitterly.

“Settlers do,” Vanning remarked.

“Bloody fools. They raise herbs and mola. If they didn’t come, Venus would be uninhabited except by natives in a few years. The North-Fever … You’d better watch out for that, by the way. If you start feeling rocky, see a doctor. Not that it’ll help. But you can be put under restraint till the fever passes.”

Vanning looked up. “I’ve heard of that. Just what—”

“Nobody knows,” Goodenow said, shrugging hopelessly. “A virus. A filterable virus, presumably. Scientists have been working on it ever since Venus was colonized. It hits the natives, too. Some get it, some don’t. It works the same way with Earthmen. You feel like you’re cracking up—and then, suddenly—you go North. Into the swamp. You never come back. That’s the end of you.”

“Funny!”

“Sure it is. But—ever heard of the lemmings? Little animals that used to make mass pilgrimages, millions of them. They’d head west till they reached the ocean, and then keep going. Nobody knew the cause of that, either.”

“What lies north?”

“Swamp, I suppose. How should I know? We’ve got no facilities for finding out. We can’t fly, and expeditions say there’s nothing there but the usual Venusian hell. I wish—”

“Oh-oh!” Vanning sat up, peering into the projector. “Wait a minute, Goodenow. I think—”

“Callahan? No!”

“He’s disguised, but … Lucky this is a three-dimensional movie. Let’s hear his voice.” Vanning touched a button on the box. A low, musical voice said:

“My name is Jerome Bentley, New York City, Earth. I’m an importer, and am on Venus to investigate the possibilities of buying a steady supply of herbs—”

“Yeah,” Vanning said tonelessly. “That’s it. Jerome Bentley—nuts! That’s Don Callahan! He’s disguised so well his own mother wouldn’t know him—best makeup artist in the System. But I’ve studied his records till I nearly went blind and deaf. I don’t make mistakes about Callahan any more.”

Goodenow blinked. “I’ll be blowed. I’ve seen the man a dozen times, and I’d have sworn … well! If you’re sure—”

“I’m sure.” Vanning referred to the records. “Staying at the Star Palace, eh? Okay, I’ll be pushing off.”

“I’ll go with you,” the consul offered, and lifted his bulky body from behind the gleaming desk. Together the two men went out into the muggy Venusian day, which was now fading to a slow, blue dusk.

Venus did not revolve; it librated. There was no such thing as sunrise and sunset. But there was a very regular thickening and fading of the eternal cloudbanks that writhed overhead, approximating day and night. Despite the continual frantic disturbance of the atmosphere, the clouds were so thick that it was never possible to see the Sun.

Only the ragged, eye-straining movement of the grayness overhead, and the warm, humid wind that gusted against your sweating skin. And the sulphurous smells that drifted in from the jungle—odors of stagnant water and rottenness and things that grew unhealthily white.

Frontier town, Vanning thought, as he glanced around. Chicago must have looked like this, in the old days, when streets were unpaved and business was the town’s only reason for existence. But Venus Landing would never grow into another Chicago. A few thousand souls, working under terrible handicaps, always fearing the North-Fever that meant death. …

Muddy streets, wooden sidewalks already rotting, metal buildings, of two stories at most, long, low hydroponic sheds, a dull, hot apathy that hung over everything—that was Venus Landing. A few natives shuffled past on their snowshoe feet, looking fat and wet, as though made out of wax that had begun to run.

The Star Palace was a down-at-the-heels plastic building, stained and discolored by the damp molds. Goodenow jerked his head at the clerk.

“Where’s Leester?”

“North-Fever,” the man said, worrying his lower lip. “This morning … we couldn’t stop him.”

“Oh, hell,” the consul said hopelessly, turning to Vanning. “That’s the way it is. Once the fever hits you, you go crazy. Do everything and anything to get away and head north. Leester was a nice kid. He was going back to Earth, next Christmas.”

Vanning looked at the clerk. “A man named Jerome Bentley’s staying here.”

“He’s somewhere around town. Dunno where.”

“Okay,” the consul said. “If he comes in, phone my office. But don’t tell him we were asking.”

“Yup.” The clerk resumed his vague scrutiny of the ceiling. Vanning and Goodenow went out.

“Where now?”

“We’ll just amble around. Hi!” The consul hailed a ricksha, drawn by a native—the usual type of vehicle in Venus Landing’s muddy streets. “Hop in, Vanning.”

The detective obeyed. His headache was getting worse.

They couldn’t find Callahan. A few men said that they had seen him earlier that day. Someone had glimpsed him on the outskirts of the settlement.

“Heading for the jungle?” Goodenow asked quickly.

“He—yeah. He looked … very bad.”

The consul sucked in his breath. “I wonder. Let’s go out that way, Vanning.”

“All right. What do you figure—”

“The fever, maybe,” Goodenow grunted. “It strikes fast. Especially to non-natives. If your friend Callahan’s caught North-Fever, he just started walking into the swamp and forgot to stop. You can mark the case closed.”

“Not till I get that treaty back,” Vanning growled.

Goodenow shook his head doubtfully.

The buildings grew sparser and ceased at the edge of the pale forest. Broad-leafed jungle growths sprang from moist black soil. The ricksha stopped; the native chattered in his own tongue.

“Sure,” Goodenow said, tossing him a coin. “Wait here. Zan-t’kshan.” His burly figure lumbered into the translucent twilight of the jungle. Vanning was at his heels.

There were footprints—many of them. The detective ignored them, moving in a straight line away from Venus Landing. Here and there were blazed mola trees, some with buckets hung to collect the dripping sap. The footprints grew fainter. At last only one set remained visible.

“A man. Pretty heavyset, too. Wearing Earth shoes, not sandals like most of ours. Callahan, probably.”

Vanning nodded. “He didn’t come back by this route.”

“He didn’t come back,” Goodenow said shortly. “This is a one-way trail.”

“Well, I’m going after him.”

“It’s suicidal. But—I suppose I can’t talk you out of it?”

“You can’t.”

“Well, come back to town and I’ll find you an outfit. Supplies and a hack-knife. Maybe I can find some men willing to go with you.”

“No,” Vanning said. “I don’t want to waste time. I’ll start now.” He took a few steps, and was halted by Goodenow’s restraining grip.

“Hold on,” the consul said, a new note in his voice. He looked closely into Vanning’s face, and pursed his lips in a soundless whistle.

“You’ve got it,” he said. “I should have noticed before.”

“Got what?”

“The North-Fever, man! Now listen to me—”

Vanning’s headache suddenly exploded in a fiery burst of white pain, which washed away and was gone, leaving his brain cool and … different. It was like a—like a cold fever. He found his thoughts were moving with unusual clarity to a certain definite point. … North. Of course he had to go north. That was what had been wrong with him all day. He had been fighting against the urge. Now he realized that it should be obeyed, instead.

He blinked at Goodenow’s heavy, worried face. “I’m all right. No fever. I want to find Callahan, that’s all.”

“Like hell it is,” the consul said grimly. “I know the symptoms. You’re coming back with me till you’re well.”

“No.”

Goodenow made a movement as though to pinion Vanning’s hands behind his back. The detective writhed free and sent a short-arm jab to Goodenow’s jaw. There was power behind that blow. The consul went over backwards, his head thumping against a white tree-bole.

He lay still.

Vanning didn’t look at the motionless body. He turned and began to follow Callahan’s trail. But he wasn’t watching the footprints. Some instinct seemed to guide him.

North … North!

His head no longer hurt. It felt strangely cool, numb and stinging almost pleasantly. The magnetic pull drew him on. Deeper and deeper into the jungle. …

Distantly he heard Goodenow’s shout, but ignored it. The consul couldn’t stop him. But he might try. Vanning ran for a while, lightly and easily, till the wilderness of Venus had swallowed him without trace. Then he slowed down to a walk. He would have been grateful for a brief rest, but he could not stop. Not now. …

The fog closed in. Silver mist veiled the strange, ghostly forest. Then it was torn away as a gust of wind drove down from the upper air. Above, the clouds twisted in tortured writhings; but Vanning did not look up. Not once did he turn his head. He faced north … he plodded north … he slogged through mushy, stinking swamp that rose at times to his waist. …

A sane man would have skirted the bog. Vanning floundered across, and swam when he could no longer walk. Somewhere to the left he heard the coughing mutter of a swamp-cat’s engine, but he did not see the machine. His vision was restricted to a narrow circle directly ahead.

Dimly he felt pain. The clinging, soft nettles of Venus ripped at his clothing and his skin. Leeches clung to his legs till they fell off, satiated. Vanning went on. He was a robot—an automaton.

In silence the pale forest slipped by in a fantastic procession. Lianas often made a tangled snare where Vanning fought for minutes before breaking through. Luckily, the vines had little tensile strength, but soon the man was exhausted and aching in every limb. Far above, the clouds had thickened and darkened into what passed for night on fog-shrouded Venus. But the trees gave a phosphorescent light of their own. Weird beyond imagination was the scene, with the bloody, reeling figure of the man staggering on toward the north—

North. Ever north. Until overtaxed muscles refused to bear the burden longer, and Vanning collapsed into exhausted unconsciousness.

He did not know when he awoke. Presently he found himself walking again. Nothing had changed. The jungle was denser, and the cool light from above filtered down once more. Only the light was cool. The air itself was sticky and suffocating.

He went on into hell.

Days and nights merged into a fantastic pattern of dull torture. Some distantly sane portion of his brain held back and watched, but could not help. Days and nights. There was no food. There was water, for as Vanning splashed through shallow pools he would bend his head to drink of the foul liquid. Once his feet crunched on the green-moulded bones of a human skeleton. Others had taken this way before him. …

Toward the end, a fleshless, gaunt thing that had once been a man dragged itself laboriously toward a range of mountains that lifted from the swamp toward the north. They extended to left and right as far as he could see, and seemed unscalable. But they were V-shaped, and Vanning headed toward the point of the V—the inner point. The terrible drive within him drove him on relentlessly.

That night a sulphurous crimson glow lit the sky beyond the mountains. Vanning did not see it. He slept.

By morning he was on his way again, staggering into the funnel of the peaks. They were bare rock, eroded by eons of trickling water from the clouds. He could not climb them, even had he possessed the strength. He went on, instead, into the narrowing valley. …

It ended in a sheer cliff of weathered stone. Vanning reeled toward the barrier. He could not return. The North-Fever drove him on remorselessly. He had to climb that wall of rock, or die. And he could not climb.

He fell, rose, and fell again. In the end he crawled. He crawled to the foot of the cliff and dragged himself upright. He fell forward, as though trying to press his body against the towering wall that lifted to the writhing grey clouds—

Fell—through the stone!

He toppled through the rock curtain as though it were nonexistent! Instantly intense blackness closed around him. Hard stone was under him.

His mind was too dulled to wonder. He knew only that the way north was still open. He crept on through darkness, leaving a trail of blood behind him. …

The ground dropped from under him. He crashed down on a mound of moulded vegetation.

Before the shock had passed, the living dead man was moving again. He crawled forward until his way was blocked by a perpendicular wall. Gasping dry-throated sobs, he clawed at the barrier with broken, bleeding fingertips.

To left and right, an arm’s length away, were other walls. He was in a pit. The sane part of his brain thought: “Circle around! There may be some way out!”

But Vanning could not circle. He could only move in one direction. That was north. He fumbled blindly at the wall, until unconsciousness came at last. …

Twice again he awoke, each time weaker, and twice again he slept. The fever, having passed its peak, dwindled swiftly.

At last Vanning awoke, and he was sane. No longer did he feel the relentless urge to turn north. He lay for a little while staring into the blackness, realizing that he was once more in full command of his traitorous body.

There was little life left in him. His tongue was blackened and swollen till it filled his mouth. He was a scarecrow, nearly naked, his bones sharply defined through his skin.

It was an effort even to breathe. But death would not be long in coming—now. …

II

Dying is an uncomfortable business, unless a man is drugged or insensible. Vanning found it so. Moreover, he wasn’t the sort of man who would give up without good cause. Weak as he was, nevertheless he was still too strong to lie in the dark, waiting.

Laboriously, he got to his hands and knees and commenced a circuit of the pit. He expected nothing. But, at the southern end of his prison, he was astounded to find a hole in the wall easily large enough to admit his body.

Feeling into the blackness, he discovered the smooth floor of a passage. Good Lord! It had been there all the time, during his tortured imprisonment in the pit. If he had only searched before—

But he could not have done so, of course. Not with the North-Fever flaming in his veins.

The tunnel might lead anywhere. All the chances were against its leading to safety. Sooner or later, there would probably be a dead end. Nevertheless, there was a chance. That chance grew brighter as Vanning’s fingers discovered that the walls bore the marks of tools.

The tunnel had been made by—perhaps not humans, but at least by some intelligent race!

It grew higher as he went on, but Vanning was too weak to rise. He realized dimly that the passage made a sharp hairpin turn.

Through the dark the distant clangor of a bell roared.

Vanning hesitated, and then resumed his weak crawl. There was nothing else to do.

The ground dropped from beneath him. He went rolling and slipping down an inclined slide, to stop with a jolt against a softly padded surface. The shock was too much for his exhausted mind and body. He felt consciousness leaving him.

But he realized that it was no longer dark. Through a pale, luminous twilight he caught a glimpse of a mask hovering over him—the mask of no human thing. Noseless save for tiny slits, gap-mouthed, round-eyed, the face was like that of a fish incredibly humanized—fantastically evolved. A patina of green scales overlaid the skin.

The gong thundered from nearby. The monstrous mask dissolved into the blackness that swept up and took Vanning to its heart. Nothing existed but pain, and that, too, was wiped out by the encompassing dark. …

He was very sick. Complete exhaustion had almost killed him. He was lying on a soft pallet, and from time to time the stinging shock of a needle in his arm told him that he was being fed by injection. Later, water trickled down his throat. His swollen tongue resumed its normal shape. Sleep came, tormented by dreams. The mask of the fish-like thing swam at him from gray shimmering light. It gave place to a great bell that roared deafeningly.

Then the face of a girl, pale, lovely, with auburn ringlets clustering about her cheeks. Sympathetic blue eyes looked into his. And that, too, was gone. …

He awoke to find—something—standing above him. And it was no nightmare. It was the thing of his dreams—a being that stood upright on two stocky legs, and which wore clothing, a shining silver tunic and kirtle. The head was fish-like, but the high cranium told of intelligence.

It said something in a language Vanning did not know. Weakly he shook his head. The fish-being launched into the Venusian dialect.

“You are recovered? You are strong again?”

Vanning sought for words. “I’m—all right. But where am I? Who—”

“Lysla will tell you.” The creature clapped its huge hands together as it turned. The door closed behind its malformed back, opening again to reveal the auburn-haired girl Vanning recognized.

He sat up, discovering that he was in a bare room walled with gray plastic, and that he was lying on a pallet of some elastic substance. Under a metallic-looking but soft robe, he was naked. The girl, he saw, bore over her arm a bundle of garments, crimson as the kirtle she herself wore.

Her smile was wan. “Hello,” she said, in English. “Feel better now?”

Vanning nodded. “Sure. But am I crazy? That thing that just went out—”

Horror darkened the girl’s blue eyes. “That is one of the Swamja. They rule here.”

“Here? Where’s here?”

Lysla knelt beside the bed. “The end of the world—for us, Jerry Vanning.”

“How do you know my name?”

“There were papers in your clothes—what was left of them. And—it’ll be hard to explain all this. I’ve only been here a month myself.”

Vanning rubbed his stubbly beard. “We’re on Venus?”

“Yes, of course. This is a—a valley. The Swamja have lived here for ages, since before Earthmen colonized Venus.”

“I never heard of them.”

“None ever return from this place,” Lysla said sombrely. “They become slaves of the Swamja—and in the end they die. New slaves come, as you did.”

Vanning’s eyes narrowed. “Hold on. I’m beginning to understand, a little. The Swamja—those fish-headed people—have a secret city here, eh? They’re intelligent?”

She nodded. “They have great powers. They consider themselves the gods of Venus. You see—Jerry Vanning—they evolved long before the anthropoid stock did. Originally they were aquatic. I don’t know much about that. Legends … Anyway, a very long time ago, they built this city and have never left it since. But they need slaves. So they send out the North-Fever—”

“What?” Vanning’s face grayed. “Lysla—what did you say? The fever’s artificial?”

“Yes. The virus is carried by microscopic spores. The Swamja send it out to the upper atmosphere, and the great winds carry it all over Venus. The virus strikes very quickly. Once a man catches it, as you did, he goes north. These mountains are a trap. They’re shaped like a funnel, so anyone with the fever inevitably heads into the pass, as you did. They are drawn through the mirage, which looks like a wall of rock. No one who wasn’t—sick—would try to go through that cliff.”

Vanning grunted, remembering. “Keep talking. I’m beginning—”

“There isn’t much more. The victims fall into the pits, and stay there till the fever has run its course. The Swamja run no risks of being infected themselves. After the sickness has passed, it’s easy to find the way out of the pits—and all the tunnels lead to this place.”

“God!” Vanning whispered. “And you say this has been going on for centuries?”

“Very many centuries. First the natives, and now the Earth-people as well. The Swamja need slaves—none live long here. But there is always a supply trickling in from outside.”

Thousands of helpless victims, through the ages, drawn into this horrible net, dragged northward to be the slaves of an inhuman race. … Vanning licked dry lips.

“Many die,” the girl said. “The Swamja want only the strongest. And only the strongest survive the trip north.”

“You—” Vanning looked at Lysla questioningly.

She smiled sadly. “I’m stronger than I look, Jerry. But I almost died. … I still haven’t completely recovered. I—was much prettier than I am now.”

Vanning found that difficult to believe. He couldn’t help grinning at the girl’s very feminine admission. She flushed a little.

“Well,” he said at last, “you’re not Venusian, I can see that. How did you come to get sucked into this?”

“Just bad luck,” Lysla told him. “A few months ago I was on top of the world, in New York. I’ve no parents. My father left me a trust fund, but it ran out unexpectedly. Bad investments, I suppose. So I found myself broke and needed a job. There weren’t any jobs for unskilled labor, except a secretarial position in Venus Landing. I was lucky to get that.”

“You’ve got nerve,” Vanning said.

“It didn’t help. The North-Fever hit me, and the next thing I knew, I was … here. A slave.”

“How many Earthmen are there here?”

“About a hundred. Not many are strong enough to reach the pass. And about the same number of Venusian natives.”

“How many Swamja?”

“A thousand, more or less,” Lysla explained. “Only the highest classes have slaves. Most of the Swamja are trained for the military.”

“So? Who the devil do they fight?”

“Nobody. It’s a tradition with them—part of their religion. They believe they’re gods, and the soldiers serve as the Valkyries did in the Norse Valhalla.”

“Two hundred slaves. … What weapons do the Swamja have?”

Lysla shook her head. “Not many. A paralysis hand-projector, a few others. But they’re invulnerable, or nearly so. Their muscles are much tougher than ours. A different cellular construction.”

Vanning pondered. He could understand that. The human heart-muscle is much stronger and tougher than—say—the biceps.

The girl broke into his thoughts. “Rebellion is quite useless. You won’t believe that now, but you’ll understand soon.”

“Maybe,” Vanning said tonelessly. “Anyhow—what’s next on the program?”

“Slavery.” Her voice was bitter. “Here are your clothes. When you’re dressed, you’ll find a ramp leading down outside the door. I’ll be waiting.” She detached a metal plaque from the wall and went out. Vanning, after a scowling pause, dressed and followed.

The corridor in which he found himself was of bare plastic, covered with a wavy bas-relief oddly reminiscent of water’s ripples, and tinted azure and gray. Here and there cold lamps, using a principle unfamiliar to the man, were set in the walls. Radioactivity, he theorized, or the Venusian equivalent. He saw a ramp, and descended it to enter a huge low-ceilinged room, with doors at intervals set in the curving walls. One of the doors was open, and Lysla’s low voice called him.

He entered a cubicle, not large, with four crude bunks arranged here and there. The girl was fitting the metal plaque into a frame over one. She smiled at him.

“Your dog-license, Jerry. You’re 57-R-Mel. It means something to the Swamja, I suppose.”

“Yeah?” Vanning saw a similar plaque over each of the cots. “What’s this place?”

“One of the dormitories. Four to an apartment is the rule. You’ll be lodged with three men who arrived a little while before you did—two Earthmen and a Venusian.”

“I see. What am I supposed to do?”

“Just wait here till you’re summoned. And Jerry—” She came toward him, placing her palms flat on his broad chest, her blue eyes looking up into his appealingly. “Jerry, please don’t do anything foolish. I know it’s hard at first. But—they—punish rebellious slaves rather awfully.”

Vanning smiled down at her. “Okay, Lysla. I’ll look around before I do anything. But, believe me, I intend to start a private little revolution around here.”

She shook her head hopelessly, auburn curls flying. “It isn’t any use. I’ve seen that already. You’ll see it, too. I must go now. And be careful, Jerry.”

He squeezed her arm reassuringly. “Sure. I’ll see you again?”

“Yes. But now—”

She was gone. Vanning whistled softly, and turned to examine the room. Sight of his face in a mirror startled him. Under the stubbly growth of beard, his familiar features had altered, grown haggard and strained.

A razor lay handy—or, rather, a sharp dagger with a razor-sharp edge. There was a bar of gray substance that gave a great deal of lather when Vanning moistened it in the metal bowl that served as a washbasin. He shaved, and felt much better.

His weakness had almost entirely gone. The medical science of the Swamja, at least, was above reproach. Nevertheless, he tired easily. … That would pass.

Who were his bunkmates in this cubicle? Idly Vanning scrutinized their effects, strewn helter-skelter on the shelves. Nothing there to tell him. There was a metal comb, however, and Vanning reached for it. It slipped from his fingers and clattered to the plastic floor.

Vanning grunted and got down on his knees to recover the object, which had skidded into a dark recess under the lowest shelf. His fumbling fingers encountered something cold and hard, and he drew it out wonderingly. It was a flat case, without ornament, and clicked open in his hands.

It was a makeup kit. Small as it was, it contained an incredible quantity of material for disguises. Tiny pellets were there, each stamped with a number. Dyestuffs that would mix with water. There was a package of isoflex, the transparent, extraordinary thin “rigid cellophane” of the day. There were other things. …

Vanning’s eyes widened. Two and two made an unmistakable four. Only one man on Venus would have reason to possess such a kit. That man was Don Callahan, whom Vanning had vainly pursued from Mars to Earth, and thence to Venus.

Callahan here!

But why not? He, too, had fallen victim to North-Fever. He had simply preceded Vanning in his drugged trip to this hidden kingdom.

“Who the hell are you?”

The harsh question brought Vanning to his feet, instinctively concealing the makeup kit in his garments. He stared at the man standing on the threshold—a husky, broad-shouldered specimen with flaming red hair and a scarred, ugly face. Squinting, keen eyes watched Vanning.

“I’m—your new roommate, I guess,” the detective said tentatively. “Jerry Vanning’s my name.”

“Mine’s Sanderson. Kenesaw Sanderson.” The other rubbed a broken nose thoughtfully. “So you’re new. Well, get this straight. Don’t try any tricks with the Swamja or get any ideas.”

Vanning tilted his head to one side. “I don’t get it.”

“New guys,” Sanderson said scornfully. “They’re always figuring it’ll be easy to escape. They try it, and we all suffer. The Swamja are tough babies. Take it easy, do what you’re told, and everything’s okay. See?”

“Not quite.” There was a roughness in Vanning’s tone. “How long have you been here?”

“A few weeks, about. I don’t recall exactly. What of it?”

“You don’t look yellow. It just seems funny that you’d give up so easily. You look pretty tough.”

Sanderson snarled deep in his throat. “I am tough! I’m also smart. Listen, Mr. Jerry Vanning, two days after I got here I saw the Swamja punish a guy who tried to escape. They skinned him alive! You hear that? And his bunkmates—they weren’t killed, but one of ’em went crazy. Those Swamja—it’s crazy to try and buck them.”

“They’ve got you out-bluffed already, eh?”

Sanderson strode forward and gripped Vanning’s shoulder in a bruising clutch. “You talk too much. Troublemakers don’t go here. Get that through your head.”

Vanning said gently, “Let go of me, quick. Or—”

“Let him go, Kenesaw,” a new voice broke in. Sanderson grunted, but released the detective. He nodded toward the door.

“Got off early, eh, Hobbs?”

“A little.” The man in the doorway was as big as Sanderson, but his face was benevolent, gentle, and seamed with care. White hair bristled in a ruff above his broad forehead. “A little,” he repeated. “Zeeth and I must go back tonight for the festival.”

“Sta. We must go back tonight,” said Zeeth, in the Venusian dialect. He appeared from behind Hobbs, a native of Venus, with the familiar soft plumpness and huge feet of the race. His doglike eyes examined Vanning. “New?”

The detective introduced himself. He was secretly puzzled. One of these three men, apparently, was Callahan—but which one? None of them resembled the man Vanning had seen on the micro-projector back at Venus Landing. But, still—

III

On impulse, Vanning took out the makeup kit and held it up. “I found this under the shelves. Yours, Hobbs? Or Sanderson?”

Both men shook their heads, frowning. Vanning glanced at the Venusian.

“Yours, Zeeth?”

“Esta, it is not mine. What is it?”

“Just a case.” Vanning stowed it away, and sat down on one of the cots, wondering. As he saw it, he had two objectives to reach. First—escape. Second—bring in Callahan.

Not merely escape, though. He thought of Lysla. A slave … damn! And the other two hundred slaves of the Swamja … He couldn’t leave them here.

But what could he do? Conquer the Swamja? The thought was melodramatically crazy. Perhaps alone he might contrive to escape, and bring a troop of Space Patrolmen to wipe out the Swamja. An army, if necessary.

The others, he saw, had seated themselves on the cots. Hobbs kicked off his sandals and sighed. “Wish I had a smoke. Oh, well.”

Vanning said sharply, “Callahan!” His eyes flicked from one to another, and found nothing but surprise in the faces turned to him. Sanderson rumbled,

“What the devil are you jabbering about?”

Vanning sighed. “I’m wondering something. When did you boys get here?”

It was the mild-faced Hobbs who answered. “A couple of weeks ago, I believe. Within a few days of each other. Just before you arrived, in fact. But we recovered long before you did. It was only a miracle that saved your life, Vanning.”

“And before you three got here—any others come from outside? Lately, I mean.”

“Not for months,” Hobbs answered. “So I heard. Why?”

“Why? It proves that one of you is the man I’m after—Don Callahan. I’m a detective; I came to Venus to find Callahan, and—by accident—I followed him here. It stands to reason that one of you is the man I want.”

Sanderson grinned. “Don’t you know what the guy looks like?”

“No,” Vanning admitted. “I’ve recognized him before by certain tricks he’s got—the way he walks, the way he jerks his head around suddenly. Before he came to Venus, I found out, he went to an anthro-surgeon and got remodeled. A complete new chassis, face and body complete. Even got skin-grafts on his fingertips. In time the old prints will grow back, but not for months. Meantime, Callahan’s pretty well disguised.”

“Good Lord!” Hobbs said. “One of us—”

Vanning nodded. “When he came to Venus, he put a disguise over his new, remodeled face. That’s gone now, of course. One of you three is Callahan.”

Zeeth, the Venusian native, said softly, “I do not think the usual laws hold good here.”

Sanderson roared with laughter. “Damn right! You expect to arrest your man and ask the Swamja to imprison him for you?”

Vanning shook his head, smiling crookedly. “Scarcely. I’m getting out of this place sooner or later, and Callahan’s going with me. Later, I’ll bring back troops and clean out the Swamja. But I’m not forgetting about Callahan.”

Hobbs shrugged. “It isn’t me.”

“Nor me,” Zeeth said. Sanderson only grinned.

Vanning grunted. “It’s one of you. I’m pretty sure of that. And I’m talking to you now, Callahan. You’ll be able to disguise your walk and your mannerisms, and I can’t recognize your new face or fingerprints. But sooner or later you’ll forget and betray yourself. Then I’ll have to take you back to Earth.”

“You will forget,” Zeeth said. “In a year—five, if you live, you will forget. Our people have legends of this land, where the gods live. Our priests taught that the North-Fever is sent by the gods. We did not know how true that teaching was. …” His bulbous face was grotesque in its solemnity.

Vanning didn’t answer. His hope of tricking an admission from Callahan had failed. Well, there would be time enough. Yet obviously one of these three was the fugitive. Hobbs? Sanderson? Certainly not Zeeth—

Wait a bit! Suppose Callahan had disguised himself as a Venusian native? That would be a perfect masquerade. And the diabolical skill of the anthro-surgeon could have transformed Callahan into a Venusian.

Vanning looked at Zeeth with new interest. The native met his glance with stolid calm.

“One cannot argue with fate. Those who died on the way here are luckier. We must live and serve.”

“I’ve got other ideas,” the detective growled.

Zeeth gestured vividly. “Your race does not accept destiny, as ours does. We have from birth a struggle for existence. Venus is a hard mistress. But some of us live. Yet even then there is the shadow of the North-Fever. At any time, we know, the sickness may fall upon us. If it does, and we are not kept close prisoners, we go into the jungle and either die or—come here. My brother was very lucky. He had the fever three years ago, but I held him and called for help. My tribesmen came running and tied Gharza tightly, so that he could not escape. For ten days and nights the fever made him mad. Then it passed. The threat had left him forever. The North-Fever only strikes once, so Gharza was immune. I, too, am immune—but I consider myself dead, of course.”

“Aw, shut up,” Sanderson snapped. “You give me the leapin’ creeps. Let’s get some sleep. We’ve got to attend the festival tonight.”

“What’s that?” Vanning asked.

The mild-faced Hobbs answered him. “A religious ceremony. Just do what you’re told, and you’ll be all right.”

“Just that, eh?”

“Our people have learned to bow our heads to Fate,” Zeeth murmured. “We are not fighters. Pain is horrible to us. You call us cowards. From your standards, that is true. Only by bowing to the great winds have we managed to survive.”

“Shut up and let me sleep,” Sanderson ordered, and relaxed his heavy body on a bunk. The others followed his example, all but Vanning, who sat silently thinking as hour after hour dragged past.

The door opened at last, and a Swamja stood on the threshold. He wore the familiar costume of the race, but there was an oddly-shaped gun in a holster at his side.

“Time!” he barked in the Venusian dialect. “Hasten! You—” He pointed to Vanning. “Follow me. The others know where to go.”

The detective silently rose and followed the Swamja into the huge room. It was filled now, he saw, with natives and with Earthmen, hurrying here and there like disturbed ants. There were no other Swamja, however.

One of the Venusians stumbled and fell. He was a thin, haggard specimen of his species, and how he had ever survived the trip north Vanning could not guess. Perhaps he had been in this lost city for years, and had been drained of his vitality by weeks of arduous servitude. He fell. …

The Swamja barked a harsh command. The native gasped a response, tried to rise—and failed.

Instantly the Swamja drew his gun and fired. The Venusian collapsed and lay still. Vanning took a step forward, hot with fury, to find himself drawn back by Hobbs’ restraining hand.

“Easy!” the other whispered. “He’s dead. No use—”

“Dead? I didn’t hear any explosion.”

“You wouldn’t. That gun fires a charge of pure force that disrupts the nervous system. It was set to kill just now.”

The Swamja turned. “I must attend to this carcass. My report must be made. You, Zeeth—take the new slave to Ombara.”

“I obey.” The native bowed and touched Vanning’s arm. “Come with me.”

Followed by Sanderson’s sardonic grin, Vanning accompanied the Venusian into a corridor, and up a winding spiral ramp. He found it difficult to contain himself.

“Good God!” he burst out finally. “Do those devils do that all the time? Plain cold-blooded murder?”

Zeeth nodded. “They have no emotions, you see. They are what you call hedonists. And they are gods. We are like animals to them. The moment we make a mistake, or are no longer useful, we are killed.”

“And you submit to it!”

“There was a rebellion two years ago, I heard. Twenty slaves died to every Swamja. They are like reptiles—nearly invulnerable. And we have no weapons, of course.”

“Can’t you get any?”

“No. Nor would I try. Venusians cannot endure pain, you understand. To us, pain is worse than death.”

Vanning grunted, and was silent as they passed through a curtained arch. Never would he forget his first sight of the Swamja city. It was like—

Like an ocean world!

He stood upon a balcony high over the city, and looked out at a vast valley three miles in diameter, scooped out of the heart of the mountains as though by a cosmic cup. Overhead was no sky. A shell of transparent substance made a ceiling above the city, a tremendous dome that couched on the mountain peaks all around.

Gray-green light filtered through it. An emerald twilight hazed the fantastic city, where twisted buildings like grottos of coral rose in strange patterns. It was a labyrinth. And it was—lovely beyond all imagination.

“Those—things—built this?” Vanning breathed.

“They knew beauty,” Zeeth said. “They have certain senses we do not have. You will see. …”

From the exact center of the city a tower rose, smooth and shining as metal. It reached to the transparent dome and seemed to rise above it, into the clouds of Venus.

“What’s that?” Vanning asked, pointing. “Their temple?”

Zeeth’s voice held irony. “Not a temple—a trap. It is the tube through which they blast the spores of the North-Fever into the sky. Day and night without pause the virus is blown upward through that tube, far into the air, where it is carried all over the planet.”

The air was darkening, thickening. Here and there rainbow lights sprang into view. Elfin fires in an enchanted world, Vanning thought.

Through the grotesque city equally grotesque figures moved, to be lost in the shadows. The monsters who ruled here—ruled like soulless devils rather than gods.

“Come. We must hurry.” Zeeth tugged at Vanning’s arm.

Together they went down the ramp into one of the winding avenues. It grew darker, and more lights came on. Once Vanning paused at sight of a corroded metal structure in the center of a well-lighted park.

“Zeeth! That’s a spaceship! A light lifeboat—”

The Venusian nodded. “And it is well guarded, too. It crashed through the dome a century ago, I was told. All the men in it were killed. A space-wreck, I suppose.”

Vanning was silent as they went on. He was visualizing what had happened in that distant past. A wreck in space, a few survivors taking to this lifeboat and setting out, hopelessly, for the nearest world—believing, perhaps, that if they reached Venus, they would be saved. And then the tremendous atmospheric tides and whirlpools of the clouded planet, in which no aircraft but the hugest could survive. …

Vanning whistled softly. Suppose he managed to get into that space-boat? Suppose there was still rocket-fuel in the tanks, and suppose it hadn’t deteriorated? Couldn’t he blast up through the dome to freedom?

Sure—to freedom and death! No ship could survive in the Venusian atmosphere, certainly not this light space-tub, of an antiquated and obsolete design.

At one of the twisted buildings, Zeeth paused. The structure was larger than Vanning had imagined from above, and his eyes widened as he followed the Venusian up winding ramps, past curtained arches, till at last they stepped into a luxurious chamber at the top. Seated on a low tussock was a Swamja, fat and hideous, his bulging eyes glaring at the intruders.

“You are late,” he said. “Why is that?”

Zeeth bowed. “We came as swiftly as possible.”

“That may be. And this slave is new. Yet errors are not permitted. For your mistake, this—” A malformed hand rose, clutching a gun. “And this.”

Instinctively Vanning tensed to leap forward, but a blast of searing fire seemed to explode in his body. He dropped in a boneless huddle, gasping for breath. Beside him he saw Zeeth, similarly helpless, fat face twisted in agony. Venusians, Vanning remembered, were horribly sensitive to pain; and even through his own torture he felt anger at the Swamja for meting out such ruthless justice.

But it was over in a moment, though that moment seemed to last for eternities. Zeeth stood up, bowed again, and slipped from the room, with a warning glance at Vanning, who also rose.

The Swamja raised his gross body. “Carry this tray. This flask and goblet—for my thirst. This atomizer—to spray on my face when I demand it. This fan for the heat.”

Vanning silently picked up the heavy metal tray and followed the lumbering, monstrous figure out. He had an impulse to bring the tray down on the Swamja’s head. But that wouldn’t solve anything. He’d have to wait—for a while, anyway. A show of temper might cost him his life.

Along the twisting avenue they went, and to a many-tiered amphitheatre, where the Swamja found a seat in a cushioned throne. Already the place was filled with the monsters. Many of them were attended by human or Venusian slaves, Vanning saw. He stood behind the Swamja, ready for anything, and looked down.

In the center of the pit was a pool. It was perhaps ten feet square, and blackly opaque. That was all.

“The spray.”

Vanning used the atomizer on the scaly face of his master. Then he looked around once more.

Not far away, standing behind another Swamja, was Sanderson. The red-haired man met his eye and grinned mockingly.

Neither Hobbs nor Zeeth was visible. But Vanning could not repress a feeling of pleasure as he saw, several tiers down, the slim figure of Lysla, her auburn curls bare in the cool night air, a tray similar to his own held strapped to her slender neck.

Vanning’s pleasure was lost in resentment. Damn these fish-headed Swamja!

“Fool!” a croaking voice said. “Twice I have had to demand the spray. Put down your tray.”

Vanning caught himself and obeyed. The Swamja turned and leveled his gun. Again the blazing, brief agony whirled sickeningly through the detective’s body.

It passed; silently he resumed his task. From time to time, he tended to the Swamja’s wants. But he also found time to glance at Lysla occasionally.

When the ceremony began, Vanning could not tell. He sensed that the assembly had grown tenser, and noticed that the eye of every Swamja was focused on the black pool. But there was nothing else. Silence, and the deformed figures staring at the jet square in the center.

Was this all? It seemed so, after half an hour had passed. Not once had the Swamja he tended demanded attention. What the devil were the creatures seeing in that pool?

For they saw something, Vanning was certain of that. Once a shiver of pure ecstasy rippled through the Swamja’s gross body. And once Vanning thought he heard a musical note, almost above the pitch of audibility. It was gone instantly.

Zeeth had said that the Swamja possessed other senses than those of humans. Perhaps those strange senses were being used now. He did not know then, nor was he ever to know, the nonhuman psychology of the Swamja, or the purpose of the black pool. Yet Vanning unmistakably sensed that here was something above and beyond the limitations of his own humanity.

He grew tired, shifting from foot to foot, but it seemed the ceremony would never end. He watched Lysla. Thus he saw her bend forward with a filled goblet—and, losing her balance, spill the liquid contents into the lap of the Swamja she tended.

Instantly she shrank back, her tray clattering to the floor. Stark panic fear was in her posture as she cowered there. There was reason. The Swamja was rising, turning, and in his huge hand was a gun. …

He was going to kill Lysla. Vanning knew that. Already he was familiar with the Swamja code that did not forgive errors. And as he saw the stubby finger tightening on the trigger-button, Vanning acted with swift, unthinking accuracy.

His hand closed over the flask on his tray, and he threw it unerringly. The fragile substance crashed into the face of the Swamja menacing Lysla, shattering into glittering shards. The being blinked and pawed at its eyes. In a moment—

Vanning jumped clear over his own Swamja and hurtled down the steps. His shoulder drove into the blinking monster beneath Lysla, and sent the creature head-over-heels into the lap of another of its race below. Vanning caught up the gun the Swamja had dropped. He turned to look into Lysla’s frightened eyes.

“Jerry—” Her voice was choked. “Oh, no!”

Abruptly a crash sounded from above. Vanning looked up to see Sanderson swinging his metal tray like a maniac. The man’s red hair was like a beacon in the strange light. He drove his weapon into the snarling face of a Swamja and yelled down at Vanning:

“Amscray! There’s an oorday on your eftlay!”

Pig-Latin! A door on the left? Vanning saw it. With one hand he caught Lysla’s arm, and with the other smashed the gun-butt viciously into the mask of a Swamja that rose up before him.

The creature did not go down. Its arms closed about Vanning. He reversed the gun and squeezed the trigger-button, but without result. Apparently the things were immune to their own weapons.

The amphitheatre was in an uproar. In a flashing glance Vanning noticed that the black pool far below was curiously disturbed. That didn’t matter. What mattered was the devil that was seeking to break his back—

Lysla tore the gun from Vanning’s hand, firing it twice. The gnarled arms relaxed. But the two humans were almost hemmed in by the aroused Swamjas.

A burly body dived into the mob, followed by another one. Hobbs yelled, “Come on, kid! Fast!”

Hobbs and Zeeth! They, too, had come to the rescue. And none too soon!

The unexpected assault broke the ranks of the Swamja for an instant, and then the Earth-people were through, racing down a slanting corridor. They emerged outside the amphitheatre. Lysla gave them no time to rest. Footsteps were thudding behind them.

“This way. They’ll kill us now if they catch us.”

She sped into an alleyway that gaped nearby. Vanning saw Hobbs and Sanderson racing in pursuit. So Sanderson had got through, too. Good!

Zeeth?

The Venusian reeled against Vanning, his fat face contorted. “I’m—hit. Go on—don’t mind me—”

“Nuts,” the detective growled, and hoisted the flabby body to his shoulder. Zeeth had more courage than any of them, he thought. Weak of physique, hating pain, yet he had not hesitated to join his companions in a hopeless battle. …

IV

Vanning sped after the others, who had waited for him. After that it was a desperate hare-and-hounds chase, with Lysla leading them through the labyrinth of the city, her slender legs flying.

“You okay?” Vanning gasped as he ran shoulder to shoulder with the girl for a moment.

Her white teeth were fixed in her lower lip. “I … I shot at that Swamja’s eyes. Blinded him. It’s the only way … ugh!”

“Where now?” Hobbs panted, his white hair rippling with the wind of his racing. Sanderson echoed the question.

“Lysla? Can we—”

“I don’t know. We’ve been heading north. Never been there before. Can’t go south—gates are always guarded.”

Hobbs panted, “There are only two ways out. The way we came in—guarded, eh?—and another gate at the north.”

“We’ll try it,” Vanning said. “Unless we can get to that spaceship—”

Zeeth wriggled free. “Put me down. I’m all right now. The spaceship—that’s guarded too. But there aren’t any soldiers at the north gate. I don’t know why.”

Through the city a rising tumult was growing. Lights were blazing here and there, but the party kept to the shadows. Twice they flattened themselves against walls as Swamja hurried past. Luck was with them; but how long it would last there was no way of knowing.

Suddenly a great voice boomed out, carrying to every corner of the city. It seemed to come from the dome high above.

“Attention! No slaves will be permitted on the streets unless accompanied by a Swamja master! No quarter is to be given to the fugitives who blinded a guard! Capture them alive if possible—they must serve as an example. But show them no quarter!”

Lysla’s face had paled. Vanning glanced at her, but said nothing. Things were bad enough as they were. Only Sanderson chuckled sardonically.

“Nice going, Vanning. How about Callahan now?”

The detective grunted. Zeeth panted, “I would—have preferred a—peaceful death. I do not—like torture.”

Vanning felt a pang of sympathy for the fat little native. But he couldn’t help him. Escape was the only chance.

“Here,” Lysla gasped, pausing in the shadow of a tall building. “These outer houses are all deserted. There’s the gate.”

Across a dim expanse of bare soil it loomed, a wall of metal rising high above their heads. Vanning stared.

“No guards. Maybe it’s locked. Still … I’m going out there. If there are any Swamja, they’ll jump me. Then run like hell. Don’t try to help.”

Without waiting for an answer he sprinted across the clearing. At the door he paused, staring around. Nothing stirred. He heard nothing but the distant tumult from within the city. Looking back, he could see the faint elfin-lights glowing here and there, and the shining tube rising to the dome—the tube that was pouring out the North-Fever virus into the atmosphere of tortured, enslaved Venus.

And these were the gods of Venus, Vanning thought bitterly. Devils, rather!

He turned to the door. The locks were in plain sight, and yielded after a minute or two to his trained hands. The door swung open automatically.

Beyond was an empty, lighted tunnel, stretching bare and silent for perhaps fifty yards. At its end was another door.

Vanning held up his hand. “Wait a bit!” he called softly. “I’ll open the other one. Then come running!”

“Right!” Sanderson’s voice called back.

An eternity later the second door swung open. Vanning gave the signal, and heard the thud of racing feet. He didn’t turn. He was staring out across the threshold, a sick hopelessness tugging at his stomach.

The door to freedom had opened—mockingly. Ahead of him was the floor of a canyon, widening as it ran on. But the solid ground existed for only a quarter of a mile beyond the threshold.

Beyond that was flame.

Red, crawling fire carpeted the valley from unscalable wall to granite scarp. Lava, restless, seething, boiled hotly down the slope, reddening the low-hanging fog into scarlet, twisting veils. Nothing alive could pass that terrible barrier. That was obvious.

Zeeth said softly, “It will be a quicker death than the Swamja will give us.”

“No!” Vanning’s response was instinctive. “Damned if I’ll go out that way. Or let—” He stopped, glancing at Lysla. Her blue eyes were curiously calm.

“The cliffs?” she suggested.

Vanning scanned them. “No use. They can’t be climbed. No wonder the Swamja left this door unguarded!”

“Wonder why they had it in the first place?” Hobbs asked.

“Maybe there was a way out here once. Then the lava burst through … I’ve seen lava pits like this on Venus,” Sanderson grunted. “They’re pure hell. This isn’t an exit—except for a salamander.”

“Then there’s no way?” Lysla asked.

Vanning’s jaw set. “There’s a way. A crazy way—but I can’t see any other, unless we can get out by the south gate.”

“Impossible,” Hobbs said flatly.

“Yeah. They’ll have plenty of guards there now … I mean the spaceship.”

There was a momentary silence. Zeeth shook his head.

“No ship can live in the air of Venus.”

“I said it was a crazy way. But we might get through. We just might. And it’s the only chance we have.”

Sanderson scratched his red head. “I’m for it. I don’t want to be skinned alive … I’m with you, Vanning. You a pilot?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll have to be the best damned pilot in the System to get us through alive.”

Lysla said, “Okay. What are we waiting for?” An indomitable grin flashed in her grimy, lovely face.

“Good girl,” Hobbs encouraged. “We’d better get out of here, anyway. Back to the city.”

They returned through the valve, without troubling to close the doors. “The Swamja might think we tried to get through the lava,” Vanning explained. “We need all the false trails we can lay. Now—we’d better hide out for a bit till the riot dies down.”

“Good idea,” Sanderson nodded.

“These outer buildings are deserted—I told you that. We can find a hiding-place—”

Lysla led them into one of the structures, and into a room below the level of the street. “They’ll search, but it’ll take a while. Now I suppose we just wait.”

Since there were no windows, the light Lysla turned on would not attract attention. Nevertheless, Vanning subconsciously felt the urge to remain in darkness.

He grinned mirthlessly. “I’m beginning to know how you feel, Callahan. Being a fugitive must be pretty tough.”

Nobody answered.

The silence ran on and on interminably. Finally Sanderson broke it.

“We forgot one thing. No slaves are allowed on the streets tonight without a Swamja along.”

“I didn’t forget,” Lysla said in a low voice. “There wasn’t any other way.”

“But we haven’t a chance in the world to get through.”

“I know that, too,” the girl whispered. “But—” Abruptly she collapsed in a heap, her auburn curls shrouding her face. Under the red tunic her slim shoulders shook convulsively.

Sanderson took a deep breath. A wry smile twisted his mouth.

“Okay, Vanning,” he said. “Let’s have that makeup kit.”

The detective stared. Curiously, he felt no exultation. Instead, there was a sick depression at the thought that Sanderson—the man who had fought at his side—was Callahan.

“I don’t—”

Sanderson—or Callahan—shrugged impatiently. “Let’s have it. This is the only way left. I wouldn’t have given myself away if it hadn’t been necessary. You’d never have suspected me … let’s have it!”

Silently Vanning handed over the makeup kit. Lysla had lifted her head to watch Callahan out of wondering eyes. Hobbs was chewing his lip, scowling in amazement. Zeeth was the only one who did not look surprised.

But even he lost his impassivity when Callahan began to use the makeup kit. It was a Pandora’s box, and it seemed incredible that a complete disguise could issue from that small container. And yet—

Callahan used the polished back of it as a mirror. He sent Lysla for water and containers, easily procurable elsewhere in the building, and mixed a greenish paste which he applied to his skin. Tiny wire gadgets expanded his mouth to a gaping slit. Artificial tissue built up his face till his nose had vanished. Isoflex was cut and moulded into duplicates of the Swamja’s bulging, glassy eyes. Callahan’s fingers flew. He mixed, painted, worked unerringly. He even altered the color of his garments by dousing them in a dye-solution, till they had lost the betraying red tint that betokened a slave.

In the end—a Swamja stood facing Vanning!

“All right,” Callahan said tiredly. “I’ll pass—if we keep out of bright lights. Now go out and help Lysla do guard duty. I’m going to disguise you all. That’ll help.”

Vanning didn’t move as the others left. Callahan took an oilskin packet from his belt and held it out. “Here’s the treaty. I suppose you came after that.”

The detective opened the bundle and checked its contents. He nodded. It was the vital treaty, which would have caused revolution on Callisto. Slowly Vanning tore it into tiny shreds, his eyes on Callahan. It was difficult, somehow, for him to find words.

The other man shrugged. “That’s that. And I suppose you’ll be taking me back to Earth—if we get out of this alive.”

“Yeah,” Vanning said tonelessly.

“Okay.” Callahan’s voice was tired. “Let’s go. We haven’t time to disguise everybody—that was just an excuse to give you the treaty. A private matter—”

He shuffled to the door, with the lumbering tread of the Swamja, and Vanning followed close at his heels.

The others were waiting.

Vanning said, “Okay. Let’s start. No time to disguise ourselves. Stay behind—”

In a close group the five moved along the avenue, Callahan in the lead.

The outlaw’s disguise was almost perfect, but nevertheless he did not trust to it entirely. When possible, he moved along dimly-lighted streets, the four others keeping close to his heels. Once a patrol of Swamja guards passed, but at a distance.

“I’m worried,” Callahan whispered to Vanning. “Those creatures have—different senses from ours. I’ve a hunch they communicate partly by telepathy. If they try that on me—”

“Hurry,” the detective urged, with a sidewise glance at Lysla. “And for God’s sake don’t get lost.”

“I won’t. I’m heading for the left of the tube-tower. That’s right, isn’t it?”

Zeeth nodded. “That’s it. I’ll tell you if I go wrong. Careful!”

A Swamja was waddling toward them. Callahan hastily turned into a side street, making a detour to avoid the monster. For a while they were safe. …

Lysla pressed close to Vanning, and he squeezed her arm reassuringly, with a confidence he could not feel. Not until now had he realized the vital importance of environment. On Mars or barren Callisto he had never felt this helplessness in the face of tremendous, inhuman powers—against which it was impossible to fight. Hopeless odds!

But luck incredibly favored them. They reached their destination without an alarm being raised. Crouching in the shadows by the square where the spaceship lay, they peered at the three guards who paced about, armed and ready.

“Only three,” Lysla said.

Vanning chewed at his lip. “Callahan, you know more about locks than I do. When we rush, get around to the other side of the ship and unlock the port. It may not be easy. The rest of us—we’ll keep the Swamja busy.”

Callahan nodded. “I suppose that’s best. We’ve only one gun.”

“Well—that can’t be helped. Lysla, you go with Callahan.”

The blue eyes blazed. “No! It’ll take all of us to manage the guards. I’m fighting with you.”

Vanning grunted. “Well—here. Take the gun. Use it when you get a chance, but be careful. Zeeth? Hobbs? Ready?”

The two men nodded silently. With a hard grin on his tired face, Vanning gave the signal and followed the disguised Callahan as he walked toward the ship. Maybe the guards wouldn’t take alarm at sight of one of their own race, as they thought. But the masquerade couldn’t keep up indefinitely.

The sentries looked toward the newcomers, but made no hostile move. One of them barked a question. Callahan didn’t answer. He kept lumbering toward the ship, his masked face hideous and impassive. Vanning, at his heels, was tense as wire. Beside him, he heard Zeeth breathing in little gasps.

Twenty paces separated the two parties—fifteen—ten. A guard croaked warning. His hand lifted, a gun gripped in the malformed fingers.

Simultaneously Lysla whipped up her weapon and fired. Once—twice—and the Swamja cried out and dropped his gun, pawing at his eyes. Then—

“Let ’em have it!” Vanning snarled—and sprang forward. “Callahan! Get that port open!”

The masked figure hesitated, gave a whispered sound that might have been a curse, and then sprinted around the side of the spaceship. Vanning didn’t see him. His shoulder caromed into the middle of the second guard, and the two went down together, slugging, clawing, kicking.

The Swamja was incredibly strong. His mouth gaped at Vanning’s throat. With an agile twist, the detective wrenched himself away, but by that time there was a gun leveled at his head. A wave of blazing agony blasted through Vanning’s body—and was instantly gone. The weapon had not been turned up to the killing power.

The Swamja twisted the barrel with one finger, making the necessary adjustment. But Vanning hadn’t been idle. His hands crossed over the gun, wrenched savagely. There was a crack of breaking bone, and the Swamja croaked in agony, his fingers broken.

He wasn’t conquered—no! Ignoring what must have been sickening pain, he threw his arms around Vanning and squeezed till the breath rushed from the human’s lungs. The detective felt himself losing consciousness. It was impossible to break that steel grip—

Once more the fangs gaped at his throat. Vanning summoned his waning strength. His left hand gripped the monster’s lower jaw, his right hand the upper. Sharp teeth ripped his fingers. He did not feel them, nor the foul, gusting breath that blew hot on his sweating face.

He wrenched viciously, dragging the creature’s mouth wide open—and wider yet!

A hoarse roar bubbled from the Swamja’s throat. There was a sharp crack, and the malformed body twisted convulsively. The mighty arms tightened, nearly breaking Vanning’s back. Then—they relaxed.

The Swamja lay still, his spine snapped.

Vanning staggered up, hearing a roaring in his ears. It wasn’t imagination. Across the square, monstrous figures came racing, shouting harshly—Swamja, dozens of them!

“Vanning!” Hobbs’ voice croaked.

On the ground, three figures were wrestling in a contorted mass—Zeeth and Hobbs and the remaining Swamja. The monster was conquering. His bulging eyes glared with mad fury. Great muscles stood out on his gnarled arms as he tore at his opponents.

With a choking curse Vanning snatched up the gun his late enemy had dropped and sprang forward. His aim was good. The Swamja’s eyes went dull as the destroying charge short-circuited his nerves.

The racing Swamja were dangerously close as Vanning bent, tearing at the monster’s mighty hands. Useless!

He pressed his gun-muzzle into the Swamja’s armpit and fired and fired again. Presently one arm writhed free. Vanning seized the two men, literally tore them from the creature’s grip.

“The port!” Vanning gasped. “Get into—the ship!”

Hobbs lifted Zeeth and staggered around the bow. As Vanning turned to follow, he saw the slim body of Lysla lying motionless on the ground, in the path of the racing Swamja.

He sprinted forward, scooped up the girl in one motion, and swerved back, running as though all hell were at his heels. A croaking yell went up. Sickening pain lanced through Vanning, and he nearly fell. But the shock, though agonizing, wasn’t permanent. Legs afire, the detective rounded the ship’s bow and saw a circular hole gaping in the corroded hull.

He flung himself toward it. Through a crimson mist the masked face of Callahan swam into view. The man leaped out of the ship, caught up Lysla from Vanning’s arms, and scrambled with her back through the port.

As Vanning tried to follow, he saw Callahan crouching on the threshold of the valve, an odd hesitancy in his manner. One of Callahan’s hands was on the lever that would close and seal the ship. For a brief eternity the eyes of the two men met and clashed.

Vanning read what was clear to read. If Callahan closed the port now, leaving Vanning outside—he would be safe from the law. No doubt the man knew how to pilot a spaceship—

A shout roared out from behind Vanning. Callahan snarled an oath, seized the detective’s hand, and yanked him into the ship. As a Swamja tried to scramble through the valve, Callahan’s foot drove viciously into the monster’s hideous face, sending him reeling back among his fellows.

Then the port clanged shut!

The port clanged shut, and the sudden silence of the ship was nerve-shattering in its instant cessation of sound.

Vanning managed to get to his feet. He didn’t look at Callahan. Lysla, he saw, was still motionless. Hobbs was kneeling beside her.

“Lysla—she all right?” the detective rasped.

“Yes.” Hobbs managed a weak grin. “She got in the way of a paralyzing charge—but she’ll be all right.”

“Okay.” Vanning turned to the controls. They were archaic—in fact, the whole design of the ship was strange to him. It had been built a century ago, and rust and yellow corrosion was everywhere.

“Think it’ll blast off?” Callahan asked as Vanning dropped into the pilot’s seat.

“We’ll pray! Let’s see how much fuel—” He touched a button, his gaze riveted on a gauge.

The needle quivered slightly—that was all.

Callahan didn’t say anything. Vanning’s face went gray.

“No fuel,” he got out.

There was a clanging tumult at the port, resounding from the outer hull.

“They can’t get in,” Callahan said slowly.

“We can’t raise the ship,” Vanning countered. “When we’ve used up all the air in here, we’ll suffocate. Unless we surrender to the Swamja.”

Hobbs gave a croaking laugh. “Not likely. There aren’t any weapons here. The ship’s been stripped clean.”

Callahan said, “If we could break through the dome—”

“There might be enough fuel for that—if it hasn’t deteriorated. But then what? We’d crash. Certain death. You know that.”

Vanning clicked another button into its socket. “Let’s see if the visiplate works.”

It did. On a panel before him a dim light glowed. It gave place to a picture, clouded and cracked across the middle. They could see the square, with the Swamja swarming into it in ever-increasing numbers, with the twisted buildings rising in the background, and the tower-tube shining far away.

Vanning caught his breath. “Listen,” he said. “There’s still a chance. A damned slim one—”

“What?”

The detective hesitated. If he took time to weigh this mad scheme, he knew it would seem utterly impossible. Instead, he snapped, “Brace yourselves! We’re taking off for a crash landing!”

Callahan looked at Vanning’s set, haggard face, and whirled. He picked up Lysla’s limp body and braced himself in a corner. Zeeth and Hobbs did the same. Before any of them could speak, Vanning had swung the power switch.

He was praying silently that there was still a little fuel left in the chambers, just a little, and that it would still work. His prayer was answered instantly. With a roaring thunder of rocket-tubes the lifeboat bulleted up from the ground!

The bellow died. There was no more fuel.

Vanning stared at the visiplate. Beneath him the city of the Swamja was spread, the elfin lights glimmering, the coral palaces twisted like strange fungus growths. Automatically his hands worked at the corroded guide-levers that controlled the wind-vanes on the ship’s hull.

The space-boat circles—swept around—

The shining tower-tube loomed directly ahead. Jaws aching, teeth clenched, Vanning held steady on his course. The ship thundered down with wind screaming madly in its wake.

The tube loomed larger—larger still. It blotted out the city. One glimpse Vanning had of the metal surface rising like a wall before him—

And the ship struck!

Rending, ripping, tearing, the space-boat crashed through the tube, bringing it down in thundering ruin. Briefly the visiplate was a maelstrom of whirling shards. Then the glare of an elf-light raced up to meet the ship.

It exploded in flaming suns within Vanning’s brain. He never knew when the ship struck.

V

He looked up into Zeeth’s eyes. Blood smeared the Venusian’s fat face, but he was smiling wanly.

“Hello,” Vanning said, sitting up.

Zeeth nodded. “The others are all right. Still unconscious.”

“The crash—”

“Hobbs has a broken arm, and I cracked a rib, I think. But the ship’s hull was tough.”

Vanning stood up. His eyes was caught by the movement on the visiplate, which had incredibly survived the shock of landing. He moved forward, bracing himself against the back of the pilot’s chair.

The city of the Swamja lay spread beneath him. The ship had lodged itself high on one of the towers, smashing its way into a sort of cradle, and then rolling down till its bow faced north. In the distance the jagged metal of the tube stood up forty feet above ground level. The rest of it wasn’t there, though gleaming, twisted plates of metal lay here and there in the streets.

And through the avenues shapes were moving. They were the Swamja, and they moved like automatons. They moved in one direction only—away from the ship.

As far as Vanning could see the Swamja were pouring through their city.

Zeeth said softly, “You are very clever. I still do not understand—”

Vanning shrugged, and his voice was tired. “The only way, Zeeth. I broke the tube that shot the North-Fever virus into the upper air. The virus was released within the city, in tremendous quantity. You know how fast it works. And in this strength—”

“Yes. It strikes quickly.”

“Once you’ve had the fever, you’re immune to it ever afterward. So the slaves won’t suffer. Only the Swamja. They’re getting a dose of their own medicine.”

“They go north,” Zeeth said. “Out of the city.”

It was true. Far in the distance, the Swamja were pouring toward the north gate, and vanishing through the open valves there. Nothing could halt them. The deadly virus they had created was flaming in their veins, and—they went north.

The did not walk; they ran, as though anxious to meet their doom. Through the city they raced, grotesque, hideous figures, unconscious of anything but the terrible, resistless drive that drew them blindly north. Through the north gate, into the pass—

Through the pass—to the lava pits!

Vanning’s shoulders slumped. “It’s nasty. But—I suppose—”

“Even the gods must die,” Zeeth said.

“Yeah. … Well, we’ve work to do. We’ll get food, water, and supplies, and head south for Venus Landing to get help. A small party will do. Then we can commandeer troops and swamp-cats to rescue the slaves from this corner of hell. We can get through to Venus Landing all right—”

“Yes, that will be possible—though difficult. Vanning—” Zeeth’s eyes hooded.

“Yeah?”

“Callahan is not here.”

“What?”

The Venusian made a quick gesture. “He awoke when I did. He told me to say that he had no wish to go to prison—so he was leaving.”

“Where to?” Vanning asked quietly.

“Venus landing. He left the ship an hour ago to get food and weapons, and by this time he is in the southern swamps, well on his way. At the Landing, he said, he would embark on a spaceship heading—somewhere.”

“I see. He’ll reach the Landing before we do, then. Before we leave, we’ll have to get things in some sort of order.”

Both Hobbs and the girl were moving slightly. Presently they would awaken—and then the work would begin. With the city emptied of the Swamja, it would be easy to organize the slaves, get up a party to march to Venus Landing—

Vanning’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. So Callahan was gone. He wasn’t surprised. Callahan would never know that the detective had awakened from the crash before any of the others—and had shammed unconsciousness till the fugitive had had time to make good his escape.

Vanning shrugged. Maybe he was a damn fool. Getting softhearted. …

“Okay,” he said to Zeeth. “Let’s get busy. We’ve got a job ahead of us!”

Thunder in the Void

Foreword

Late in the Twentieth Century Man, for the first time, burst through the invisible barrier that had always kept him chained to his planet. A new and almost uncharted ocean lay before him, its vastness illimitable, its mysteries as yet unexplored. Magellan, Columbus, Leif Ericsson—these primitives expected great wonders as the searoads opened before the prows of their ships. But the first spacemen thought—mistakenly, as it proved—that the airless void between the worlds could hold little unknown to them.

They did not foresee that actual experience of a thing is far different from abstract knowledge of it. They did not foresee the death that leaped upon them from the outer dark, the strange, enigmatic horror that killed men without leaving trace or clue. The ships came back, crews decimated. Out there lay a menace that slew with blind, ravening fury.

For a time space held its secret. And then the Varra spoke to us, warned us, told us why space was forbidden.

The Varra—glowing balls of light that hung in the void, vortices of electromagnetic energy, alive and intelligent. For generations, they said, they had tried to communicate with us. But they could not exist except in airless space, or under specialized conditions. They were not protoplasmic in nature; they were beings of pure energy. But they were intelligent and friendly.

From them we learned the nature of the menace. A race of beings dwelt on Pluto, so different from both humanity and the Varra that they were almost inconceivable. This race had never mastered space travel; it had no need to leave its dark world. Only the immense power of the Plutonians’ minds reached out through the void, vampiric, draining the life-energy from living organisms over incredible distances. Like medieval robber-barons they laired on their planet, and the tentacles of their minds reached impalpably out for prey. Vampires of energy.

Vampires of life.

But the Varra they could not touch or harm. The peculiar physical structure of the Varra rendered them safe from the Plutonian creatures.

A World Fleet was sent out to subdue Pluto, against the advice of the Varra. It did not return.

In the end we made a pact with the Varra. They conveyed us through space, protecting us, as far as they were able, from the Plutonian vampires, though they did not always succeed. Each man who ventured into the void was guarded and guided by a Varra, and therefore many lived who would otherwise have died. No ship went beyond the orbit of Neptune; even that was dangerous. No ship ever landed on Pluto.

Only those guarded by the Varra were permitted to leave Earth. For the rest—space was forbidden.

I

Hijacker from Hell

The Arctic blizzard swept needles of stinging ice against Saul Duncan’s face. Doggedly he plowed on, head lowered, heavy shoulders hunched against the fury of the winds. Once he heard the drone of a heliplane overhead, and flung himself flat till the sound had been swallowed by the gale. Then for a few moments his body refused to obey the grim demands of his mind. Deceptive warmth was stealing over him, inviting him to rest. But that, he knew, meant death then and there.

If he kept going, there was a chance of safety and freedom—not much of a chance, though, for few men ever escaped alive from the Transpolar Penitentiary. Situated within the Arctic Circle, the grim, guarded fortress of stone and metal and tough plastics was safer than Alcatraz had been a century and a half ago. Yet Duncan had escaped. …

His bitter lips twisted in a harsh smile. Escape! Into a polar blizzard—but that was the only possible time when a prisoner could evade the guard planes that patrolled the frigid waste. And Duncan could not have made his escape without aid from outside.

With stiff fingers he fumbled out a compass-like instrument that had been smuggled to him in the penitentiary. The needle held motionless, pointing directly into the teeth of the gale. If he kept on in that direction, sooner or later he would reach Olcott’s plane. But how long it would take he did not know.

Still, even dying in the blizzard was better than another five years in Transpolar—five years that had ravaged and embittered Saul Duncan, hardening his no-longer-youthful face, putting ice into his glance and hatred in his heart. But physically he had thrived. If a prisoner survived the first year at Transpolar, he grew tougher, harder—and more dangerous.

Duncan trudged on, shaking with cold. Ten years for murder—second degree murder. Well, he hadn’t been framed. He’d wanted to kill Moriarty. And he had succeeded, in a moment of blind, crimson rage that had flooded his brain and sent his fist smashing into Moriarty’s face with the impact of a piledriver. The man had put his filthy hands on Andrea. …

Damn him! Even now Duncan’s muscles grew tight at the memory. He recalled how he and Andrea had fought their way up, slum-bred, facing a future of poverty and crime, and how they had seized a chance of escaping from that dark future. It meant arduous work, years of training, for learning to pilot a spaceship is no easy task. But he had done it, and Andrea had been willing to wait, scraping along on just a little more than nothing, in preparation for the day when Duncan could draw the pay of a first-rate pilot.

But Moriarty had been Duncan’s superior officer. And there had been no witnesses except Andrea and Duncan. The verdict was murder, with extenuating circumstances. A recommendation for mercy.

Mercy—ten years in Transpolar, of which Duncan had already served five! Five years of knowing that Andrea, ticketed as a jailbird’s wife, could scarcely earn enough to keep alive. Five years, and there were patches of iron gray along Saul Duncan’s temples.

He had grown bitter. He hated the society that had sent him to a living hell, and when Olcott offered escape. …

At a price, of course. But Duncan was ready to pay that price. His gray eyes were savage as he marched on, staggering sometimes, snow crusting on his lashes so that he could scarcely see.

So well was the plane camouflaged that he almost lurched into the white hull before he realized that he had reached the end of the march. Sudden weakness overtook Duncan, and he found it difficult to move the few steps to the cabin’s door. He pounded on the alloy with fists that had no feeling.

There was a click, and the panel slid open, letting a gust of warm air play about Duncan’s cheeks.

Brent Olcott stood there, tall, dark-haired and arrogantly handsome. He was a big man, like Duncan, but so well proportioned that his movements were tigerishly graceful. His teeth flashed under a well-kept mustache as he extended a hand.

It was impossible to speak above the gale’s shriek. Not till the panel had been shut, cutting off the uproar, did Olcott say tersely, “Glad you made it, Duncan. I didn’t count on a storm like this.”

“I made it. That’s the important part.” It was difficult to articulate with almost frozen lips. Olcott looked at him sharply.

“Frostbite? Can’t have that. Strip down and rub yourself with that.” He nodded toward an auto-refrigerated bucket of chopped ice on a shelf. “If we’re ordered down, I’ve a secret compartment you can slide into. Crowded quarters, but you won’t be found there. Now—” He turned to the controls as Duncan, shivering, peeled off his wet garments.

It was a difficult takeoff, despite the triple-powered motor. Only a gyro-equipped plane could have made it. The ship lurched and rocked dangerously in the blast.

Duncan fought his way beside Olcott. “Got rockets?”

“Auxiliaries, yes. But—”

“They won’t be seen in this storm.”

Olcott spread his hands in a meaning gesture. Few atmosphere pilots could handle the tricky manipulations of rocket-tubes. They were for emergency only, but this, Duncan thought, was an emergency. He thrust Olcott away and slid into the cushioned cradle-chair. His fingers, still stiff, poised over the keys.

Then his old-time skill came back, the intricate series of what were really conditioned reflexes that made a pilot capable of handling a bank of tube keys. Split-second thinking wasn’t quite enough. Reactions had to be almost without thought. The ship spun down, and Duncan’s hands flashed into swift movement on the studs.

The sudden acceleration hit him in the pit of the stomach. Olcott had braced himself, but was almost torn loose from his grip. For a moment the plane bucked and jolted madly, rocket fighting rocket, both fighting the gale. Then, without warning, they were above the storm, in air almost too thin for the prop, leveling off at an easy keel.

Duncan set the course due south and turned to Olcott for instructions. The latter was at another keyboard, carefully studying a visiplate before him. It showed the sky, dark blue and empty. After a moment Olcott made a few adjustments and came back to take over the controls.

“Nice work. You’re a better pilot than I’d hoped. But you’ll need to be—” Olcott didn’t finish.

Duncan was rubbing his skin with ice. “I know rockets. Say, isn’t this dangerous? We may be spotted from below.”

“We won’t. This plane’s a chameleon. The man we’re going to see invented the trick for me. We’ve a double hull, and the outer skin’s transparent plastic. The space between the skins can be filled with certain colored gases—I’ve a wide range of colors. On the snowfield I used white, to blend with surroundings. Here it’s a blue gas. From below we’re invisible against the sky.” Olcott rose to make an adjustment. “I’d better lighten the color a bit. We’re going south fast, and the sky’s not so dark now.”

Duncan nodded appreciatively. He had heard stories about Brent Olcott, few of them savory, but all hinting at the man’s intelligence and power. He was one of those who, in the Twenty-first Century, made money without being too scrupulous about his methods. Technically Olcott owned a firm named “Enterprises, Ltd.” Unlimited would have been more suitable. His finger was in plenty of pies, but he had always managed to pull out plums without getting his hands soiled. Legally his record was clean.

But he was dangerous. When Duncan had accepted Olcott’s offer of help, he had known what that meant—a job, and a dirty one. Nevertheless, it would pay plenty—and it would mean freedom from Transpolar, and being with Andrea again.

Duncan dressed in the clothes Olcott had provided, an unobtrusive dark fabricoid blouse and trousers, gathered at the ankles in the conventional fashion. In the heated cabin no more clothing was necessary.

“There’s a bottle over there,” Olcott suggested.

Duncan gulped whiskey, feeling the hot tingling of the liquid spread out from his stomach. He felt better, though there was a curious air of unreality about the whole thing. A port, showed him the storm cloud, below and behind now. Somewhere in that troubled darkness lay the grim fortress of Transpolar Penitentiary, the hell that had swallowed five years of Duncan’s life, and drained him of hope and ideals.

There was hope again. But ideals—

He upended the bottle.

Olcott looked up from the controls. The air was clear, and the tremendous power of the engines hurled them southward at fantastic speed.

“Sit over here, Duncan,” he invited. “I want to talk to you.”

“Okay. Let’s have it. You’ve got a job lined up for me, I know that. The question is—why me?”

Olcott picked his words carefully. “There aren’t many qualified space pilots in the system. And those are well paid; I couldn’t get at any of ’em. I tried, I’ll admit—but not after I heard about you. Would you like to make half a million credits?”

“Keep talking.”

“With that many credits, you’d never need to work again. I know a good surgeon who’d remold your face and graft new fingers on your hands, so you wouldn’t have to worry about prints. You probably couldn’t be convicted even if they arrested you—not without complete identification.”

Duncan didn’t answer, but his lips had gone pale and thin. One is seldom transported instantly from hell to heaven. Yet Olcott’s offer was—well, it meant everything, including Andrea.

“Go on,” Duncan said hoarsely. “What d’you want me to do?”

Olcott’s cool, watchful eyes met his own.

“Go into space,” he said, “without a Varra Helmet.”

The plane thundered on, and miles had been left behind before Duncan spoke again.

“Suicide.”

“No. There’s a way.”

“When I was piloting, no one was allowed to space-travel without a Helmet. Even with the Varra convoys, people were sometimes killed by the Plutonians. I remember a few screwballs tried to slip out without the Varra, but they didn’t live.”

Olcott said, “I’ve found a way of leaving Earth without a Helmet, and without being detected by the Plutonians. It isn’t sure-fire, but all the chances are in your favor. Shall I go on?”

“Yeah,” Duncan said tonelessly.

“I need money. I need it bad, just now. And there’s a ship heading for Earth now that’s got a pound of Martian radium aboard.”

“A pound!”

“A hell of a lot, even considering the big radium deposits on Mars. With my connections, I can sell the stuff. You’re going to hijack the Maid of Mercury, Duncan, and get that radium.”

“Hijacking a spaceship? It’s crazy.”

“It’s never been done, sure. Nobody’s dared go into space without a Helmet. And the government issues the Helmets. But look at the other side of it. We’ve got a few patrol boats—the Interplanetary Police. Which is a loud, raucous laugh. Rickety tubs with no real armament. You won’t have to worry about them.”

Duncan took another drink. “It still sounds like suicide.”

“Hartman will explain—the man we’re going to see now. Take my word for it that you can go into space without a Helmet and be safe. Fairly safe.”

“Half a million credits—”

“The only danger,” Olcott said carefully, “is that the Maid might send out an SOS. The I.P. ships are rickety, but they’re fast, and they might stay on your trail. We can’t have that. So we’ve planted somebody on the Maid who’ll smash the radio apparatus just before you make contact. You can pick her up with the radium and head back to Earth.”

“Her?”

“You know her, I think,” Olcott said quietly, his eyes impassive. “Andrea Duncan.”

Duncan moved fast, but there was a gun in Olcott’s hand covering him.

The latter said, “Take it easy. You killed one man with your fists. I’m taking no chances.”

A tiny scar on Duncan’s forehead flamed red. “You rotten—”

“Don’t be a fool. She’s wearing a Varra Helmet. Of course she’ll take it off when she joins you, or she’d have a Varra en rapport with her, one who’d spill the beans completely.”

“Andrea wouldn’t—”

“She doesn’t know all of my plans. And she was willing to help me—as the price of your freedom. Listen!” Olcott spoke persuasively. “The girl’s already on the ship. She’s got her instructions. Tomorrow, at three p.m., she’ll smash the radio. If you’re not on hand to pick her up—and the radium—she’ll get into trouble. Destroying communications in space is a penal offense. She might go to Transpolar.”

Duncan snarled deep in his throat. His face was savage.

Olcott kept the gun steady. “Everything’s planned. Be smart, and in a couple of days you’ll be back on Earth, with Andrea and half a million credits. If you want to be a damned fool—” the pistol jutted—“it’s a long drop. And it’ll be tough on the girl.”

“Yeah,” Duncan whispered. “I get it.” His big fists clenched. “I’ll play it your way, Olcott. I have to. But if anything happens to Andrea, God help you!”

Olcott only smiled.

II

Invisible Pirate

Rudy Hartman was drunk. An overturned bottle of khlar, the fiery Martian brew, lay beside his cot, and he stumbled over it and cursed thickly as he blinked at tropical sunlight. The gross, shapeless body, clad in filthy singlet and dungarees, lumbered over to a crude laboratory bench, and Hartman, blinking and grunting, fumbled for a syringe. He shot thiamin chloride into his arm, and simultaneously heard the roar of a plane’s motor.

Hastily Hartman left the godown and headed for the island’s beach near by. The camouflaged amphibian was gliding across the lagoon—a quick flight, that had been, from the Polar Circle to the South Pacific! Hartman’s eyes focused blearily on the plane as it slid toward the rough dock.

Two men got out—Olcott and Duncan.

“Everything’s ready,” Hartman said. His tongue was thick, and he steadied himself with an effort.

“Good!” Olcott glanced at his wrist-chronometer. “There’s no time to waste.”

“When do I take off?”

“Immediately. You’ll pick up the Maid this side of the Moon, but it’s a long distance.”

Hartman was blinking at the convict. “You’re Saul Duncan. Hope you’re a good pilot. This is—um—ticklish work.”

“I can handle it,” Duncan said shortly. Olcott was already moving toward a trail that led inland from the beach. The other two followed for perhaps half a mile, till they reached the dead-black hull of a small cruiser-type spaceship, camouflaged from above with vines and pandanus leaves. The boat showed signs of hard usage. Duncan walked around to the stern tubes and carefully examined the jointures.

“Crack-up, eh?” he said.

Olcott nodded. “How do you suppose we got our hands on the crate? It was wrecked south of here, near a little islet. There weren’t any survivors. It cost me plenty to have the ship brought here secretly, where Hartman could work on it. But it has been put in good shape now.”

“She—um—runs,” the scientist said doubtfully, blinking. “And she has strong motors. Unless they’re too strong. I spot-welded the hull, but there is—um—a certain amount of danger.”

Olcott made an impatient gesture. “Let’s go in.”

The control cabin showed signs of careful work; Duncan decided that Hartman knew his job. He moved to the controls and examined them with interest.

“Made any test-runs?”

“Without a pilot?” Olcott chuckled. “Hartman says it’ll fly, and that’s enough for me.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I see you’ve painted the ship black. That’ll make it difficult to spot. I’ll have only occlusion to worry about, and a fast course with this little boat will take care of that.” Duncan pulled at his lower lip. “I noticed you put rocket-screens on, too.”

“Naturally.” Rocket-screens, like gun-silencers, were illegal, and for a similar reason. The flare of the jets are visible across vast distances in space, but a dead-black ship, tubes screened, would be practically invisible.

“Okay,” Duncan said. “What about the Plutonians.”

It was Hartman who spoke this time. “Just what do you know about the Plutonians?”

“No more than anyone else. No ship’s ever landed on Pluto. The creatures are mental vampires. They can reach out, somehow, across space and suck the energy out of the brain.”

Hartman’s ravaged face twisted in a grin. “So. But their power can’t break through the Heaviside Layer. That’s why Earth hasn’t been harmed. Only space travelers, unprotected by a Varra convoy, are vulnerable. Even with Varra Helmets, men are sometimes killed. All right. How do you suppose the Plutonians find their victims?”

“Nobody knows that,” Duncan said. “Mental vibrations, maybe.”

Hartman snorted. “Space is big! The electrical impulses of a brain are microscopic compared to interplanetary distances. But the ships—there’s the answer. A spaceship is visible for thousands of miles—reflection, and the rocket-jets. It’d be easy for the Plutonians to locate our ships, if they have any sort of telescopes at all. So, we have here a ship they cannot find. Therefore, we do not need a Varra escort to protect us from the Plutonians.”

“It would have been safer if we could have hired a Varra,” Olcott said. “Still, that was impossible. They’re hand in glove with the government.”

“I know. They’ve convoyed me, in the old days,” Duncan grunted. “Let me go over it again. I take this ship out, pick up the Maid, Earthside of Luna, and get the radium—and Andrea.”

“Right,” Olcott nodded. “Then back here, and I hand over half a million credits.”

“Going into space without a Helmet is risky.”

“You will not be near Pluto,” Hartman put in. “There is danger, yes, but it is minimized.”

“But there is danger. I’m thinking of Andrea. When I pick her up, she’s got to leave her Helmet in the Maid.”

“Naturally,” Olcott snapped, his lips thinning. “If she continues to wear it, she brings a Varra back to Earth with her—a spy.”

Duncan looked at Hartman. “What armament are we carrying?”

“Six four-inch blaster cannons, fully charged.”

“Okay.” Duncan turned again to the controls, slipping into the cushioned basket-seat. “Everything oiled and clean, eh? Doors?” He touched a stud; the valve of the door closed silently.

“Everything is ready,” Hartman said.

“Air-conditioning?” Duncan tried it. “Good. Course?” He checked the space-chart before him. His back to the others, he said quietly, “You’re asking Andrea to take a big risk, Olcott. You too, Hartman, going into space without a Helmet.”

Olcott moved uneasily; Duncan could see him in the mirror above the instrument panel. “Hell! It was her own choice—”

“You blackmailed her into it.”

Olcott’s lips thinned. “Backing out? If you are, say so.”

“No,” Duncan said, “I’m not backing out. I’m going into space. But you two are going with me—right now!”

His poised fingers shot down on the instrument board. Olcott’s oath and Hartman’s startled yell were both drowned in a sudden raging fury of rockets. In the mirror Duncan could see the gun that flashed into Olcott’s hand, but at the same instant terrific acceleration clamped hold of the little ship.

Olcott’s gun was never fired. The three men’s senses blacked out instantly, mercifully, as the stress of abnormal gravities lifted the cruiser bullet-fast from the islet. Three figures lay motionless on the plasticoid floor, while the rockets’ bellow mingled with the shrieking of the atmosphere. The insulated hull scarcely had time to heat before the ship was in free space, shuddering through all its repaired beams and joists, the dull, heavy thunder of the screened tubes vibrating like a tocsin of doom in every inch of the cruiser.

The hull was dead black, the jets screened. No eye detected the swift flight of the ship. Toward the Moon it plunged, rockets bellowing with insensate fury. …

Duncan was first to awaken. Space flight was nothing new to him, and his body had been hardened and toughened by five years at Transpolar. Nevertheless, his muscles throbbed with pain, and he had a blinding headache as he dragged his eyelids up and tried to remember what had happened.

Realization came back. Spaceman’s instinct made Duncan look first at the controls. The chronometer on the board told him that he had been unconscious for many hours. Watching the star-map, he figured swiftly. Fair enough. They were off their course, but the cruiser had been traveling at breakneck speed. It was still possible to keep the rendezvous with the Maid. Duncan readjusted the controls.

After that, he turned to Olcott and the scientist. Neither was seriously injured. Duncan relieved Olcott of his gun; Hartman was unarmed. Then he took a drink and sat down to wait.

Presently Olcott stirred slightly. His lashes did not move, but without warning his hand streaked toward his pocket.

“I’ve got your gun,” Duncan said gently. “Stop playing possum and get up.”

Olcott obeyed. There was a streak of blood on his cheek, and he swayed a little as he stood, straddle-legged, facing the pilot.

“What’s the idea?”

Duncan grinned. “I’m carrying out your orders. I just thought I’d like company.”

Olcott fingered his mustache. “You’re the first man who ever played a trick like that on me.”

For answer Duncan stood up and waved negligently at the controls. “Take over, if you like. Head the ship back to Earth.”

The irony was evident. In free space, almost anyone could pilot a cruiser. But emergencies and landings were different matters. Years of training in split-second, conditioned reactions were necessary to make a pilot—and only Duncan had had that training. Olcott could easily turn the ship around, but he probably could not control it in atmosphere, and he certainly could not make a safe landing. Olcott was in a prison, and Duncan held the only key.

“What do you want?”

“Not a thing. I’m going through with the job. I’ll get the radium for you, and pick up Andrea. But if the Plutonians harm her, without a Helmet, she won’t die alone. We’re all in the same boat now.”

Olcott came to a decision. “All right. You’ve got aces. Later, we can settle things—not now.”

Duncan turned to the star-map. “Fair enough.”

In the mirror he watched Olcott kneel beside the unconscious Hartman and break an ammonia capsule under the scientist’s nose. Yes, fair enough. He had Olcott in a trap. Dangerous as the man was—and Duncan made no mistake about that—he would scarcely be fool enough to cause trouble till his own safety was assured.

It wouldn’t be assured till the cruiser was back on Earth. Meanwhile, they were in free space—without Varra Helmets. Duncan shivered a little. His eyes sought the enigmatic blackness where Pluto swung in its orbit, invisible and menacing. The Plutonian mind-vampires. Apparently Hartman’s trick had worked. The creatures had not yet discovered the blacked-out cruiser.

Not yet. But the scope of their powers was unknown. After all, the Plutonians were the reason why space was forbidden.

Instinctively Duncan’s teeth showed in a snarl of savage defiance.

There was hilarious excitement aboard the Maid of Mercury. The big passenger-cargo ship had just crossed the Line—Luna’s orbit—and that entailed a ceremony involving those who had never crossed before. An officer, grotesquely costumed as the Man in the Moon, presided from a makeshift throne in the main salon, and Andrea Duncan, smiling a little, watched the victims each get their dose of crazy-gas. She’d already had her initiation, and the effects of the mildly intoxicating gas were wearing off.

It was difficult to believe that outside the hull lay empty space, dark and limitless. Andrea turned her mind away from the thought. But another came—Saul—and she bit her lip and caught her breath in a tiny gasp. Saul! Had Olcott managed the escape? Was Saul Duncan free from Transpolar?

He must be. Olcott wouldn’t fail. That meant that in a few hours Andrea must destroy the communication system. Olcott had told her the best way. Yes, she was ready. It would mean freedom for Saul.

If she failed, Olcott had said, her husband would be sent back to Transpolar, with an additional heavy sentence—ten more years, perhaps. Well, she wouldn’t fail.

A man brushed past her. “Your hair’s mussed up—”

Instinctively Andrea lifted a hand, only to be checked by the hard plastic curve of her Helmet. It was an old gag, but she forced herself to smile. The necessity of wearing Helmets in space had become a joke to most of the passengers. Probably only the officers realized the true danger of the Plutonian mind-vampires.

Everyone in the salon, of course, wore a Helmet—even the Man in the Moon, under his disguise. Cumbersome as they looked, they rested lightly on the wearers’ shoulders, and were actually so light that one easily became accustomed to them. Andrea studied her reflection in a nearby mirror. Her small, heart-shaped face seemed dwarfed by the Helmet. Experimentally, like an interested child, she pressed a stud and saw the transparent, airtight shield slide into place an inch from her nose. Within the ship the shields were not necessary, nor were complete spacesuits. But the Helmets were vital.

Andrea knew little or nothing of the technical details. The secret of the Helmets lay in the luminous, intertron knob atop each one. It was this that provided a two-way hookup with the Varra. She remembered what an officer had told her, when she had first donned a Helmet at the Atlantic Spaceport.

“Never done it before, eh, miss? Well, don’t be frightened. Let me help you.” He had adjusted the bulky Helmet. “The power won’t be turned on till we hit the Heaviside Layer. The Varra can’t safely enter our atmosphere, you know.”

“I didn’t know. It seems so strange—”

The officer chuckled. “Not really. It’s like being in radio communication with somebody. You see, when the juice is turned on, a Varra instantly hooks itself up to your Helmet. You can even talk to him—it—if you like. They’re intelligent; nice people, in fact.”

“Can they read thoughts?”

“Everybody asks me that. No, they can’t. The idea is that without a Helmet, you’d be exposed to the Plutonian mind-vampires. As it is, the Varra throws up a mental shield that protects you.”

Andrea hesitated. “It doesn’t always work, though, does it?”

“Almost always. You were warned of that—” His manner became officially rigid. “You signed a release blank, in case of accident. But there’s no danger to speak of. Space flight is exhausting; you’ll feel pretty bad by the time we hit Mars. Somehow there’s an energy drain that even the Varra can’t neutralize.”

“The Plutonians?”

“We think so. But without the Helmets—” He grinned in a comforting fashion. “You’ll be okay, miss.”

Later, at the Heaviside Layer, the power had been turned on in each Helmet. There was no apparent change, except for the sudden luminosity of the intertron knobs. But a voice, friendly despite its curious alienage, had spoken wordlessly inside Andrea’s brain.

“I’m taking over now. Don’t remove your Helmet or turn off the power till you’re in atmosphere again.”

“Atmosphere—” Andrea had spoken aloud without realizing it. The Varra answered her.

“Each planet has a Heaviside Layer, an electronic barrage that disrupts mental-energy vibrations. We find it dangerous to pass that Layer, but so do the Plutonians.”

Another passenger had told Andrea somewhat more—that the Varra, even before space travel, were not unknown to science. Charles Fort had been one of the first to collect data about them—inexplicable balls of fire appearing on Earth, with their life-forces warped and harmed by the Heaviside Layer, moving at random out of their native element.

Two hours after crossing the Lunar Line Andrea slipped noiselessly into the radio room. The long space trip had told on her; like all the others, she was conscious of exhaustion and mental drain. Glancing at her chronometer, she realized that in a few minutes Saul would make contact with the Maid.

She clicked off the power in her Helmet. She wanted no Varra spying on her now.

The radio operator did not turn. He had not seen her or heard her silent approach. Andrea’s hand poised over an intricate array of wires and tore the cables free.

A lance of cold fire plunged into her brain. It was too quick for pain. Her terrified thought, The Plutonians! was cut off instantly. Her mind drowned, as in dark water, chill and horrible.

The radio operator whirled, startled, at the thud of Andrea’s falling body.

III

Destination—Death!

“C.Q.X.! C.Q.X.! Calling Maid of Mercury!”

Saul Duncan looked up from the mike. “No answer. Their radio’s dead.”

“Your wife did her job,” Olcott grunted, fingering his mustache. He had regained his usual impassivity, though Hartman, in the background, had not. The scientist, without his daily quart of khlar, was a nervous wreck, puffing cigarette after cigarette in a vain attempt to calm himself.

“There she is.” Duncan nodded at the visiplate, where the bulk of the Maid lay, occulting stars. “We’ll use visual signals. First, though, we’ll have to—”

His fingers moved swiftly. A four-inch blaster cannon sent its bolt of electronic energy ravening through space, across the Maid’s bow. Lights on the cruiser’s hull blinked into rainbow colors.

Paralleling the Maid, steadily drawing closer, the smaller ship kept on its course.

Duncan said, “They noticed that. They’ll be watching the visiplate—”

“What are you telling them?”

“To send over the radium, or we’ll blast ’em to hell.”

“Good!”

But Duncan’s lips were tight. He was bluffing, of course. Blasting an unarmed ship full of passengers—well, if it came to a showdown, he could not do it, even if Andrea had not been on board. However, the Maid’s captain couldn’t know that. He wouldn’t dare take the risk.

Answering lights flashed on the larger ship’s hull. Duncan read them aloud with the ease of long practice.

“No radium aboard. Is this a joke?”

“Send another blast,” Olcott suggested.

Duncan’s response was to fire a bolt that melted two of the Maid’s stern tubes into slag. That didn’t harm anyone in the passenger ship, but it showed that he was presumably in earnest. And he had to get Andrea aboard now. She had smashed the radio, and probably was already under arrest. Well—

“Sending radium. Don’t fire again.”

“Send one of your passengers also. Jane Horton.” Andrea was booked under that alias, Olcott had said.

There was a pause. Then—“Jane Horton victim of Plutonians. Must have turned off power in Helmet. Found dead in radio room just before you made contact.”

Saul Duncan’s fingers didn’t move on the keys. Deep within him, something turned into ice. He was hearing a voice, seeing a face, both phantoms, for Andrea was dead.

Andrea was dead.

The words were meaningless.

He became conscious of Olcott at his side, talking angrily.

“What’s wrong? What did they say?”

Duncan looked at Olcott. The dead, frozen fury in the pilot’s eyes halted Olcott in mid-sentence.

Automatically Duncan’s hand moved over the keyboard.

“Send the body to me.”

Then he waited.

On the visiplate was movement. A port gaped in the Maid’s hull, the escape-hatch with which all ships were provided. Based on torpedo-tube principle, powered by magnetic energy, the projector was built to hurl crew or passengers out of the ship’s sphere of attraction. Sometimes the rockets would fail, in which case the vessel would crash on any nearby body. If that danger threatened, a man in a spacesuit, equipped with auxiliary rockets, could survive for days in the void, provided he was not dragged down with the ship. The projector took care of that.

Now, tuned to minimum power, it thrust a bulky object out into space, pushing it toward the cruiser. Gravitation did the rest. The spacesuit dropped toward the smaller vessel, thudded against the hull. Duncan threw a series of hull magnets, one after another, till the suit was at an escape valve.

Five minutes later the space coffin lay at Duncan’s feet.

Through the bars that protected the transparent faceplate he could see Andrea, her long lashes motionless on her cheeks. Duncan’s face was suddenly haggard. Olcott’s voice jarred on his taut nerves.

“What happened? Did they—”

“The Plutonians killed her,” Duncan said. “She turned off her Helmet, and they killed her.”

Hartman was staring at a lead box attached to the spacesuit. “They sent the radium!”

Duncan’s lips twisted in a bitter smile. With a quick movement he went to the controls and turned the cruiser into a new course. On the visiplate, the Maid began to draw away.

Olcott said, “How long will it take us to get back to Earth?”

“We’re not going back.” Duncan’s voice held no emotion.

“What?”

“Andrea’s dead. The Plutonians killed her. You and Hartman helped.”

Olcott’s big body seemed to tense. “Don’t be a fool. What good will it do to murder us? What’s done is done. You—”

“I’m not going to murder you,” Duncan said. “The Plutonians will take care of that.”

“You’re crazy!”

Briefly a flash of murderous fury showed in Duncan’s eyes. He repressed it.

“I’m taking this boat to Pluto. I’m going to blast hell out of the Plutonians. They’ll get us eventually, all of us. That’ll be swell. I don’t want to live very long now. But before I die, I’m going to smash as many of the Plutonians as I can, because they killed Andrea. And you two are going with me, because you got Andrea into this mess.”

Hartman said shakily, “It’s suicide. No ship can get within a million miles of Pluto!”

“This ship can. It’s dead black, with rocket screens. And the Plutonians haven’t found us yet—which proves something. Hold it!” The gun flashed into Duncan’s hand as Olcott jerked forward. “I’ll kill you myself if I have to, but I’d rather let the Plutonians do it.” He motioned the others to the back of the cabin as a light flashed on the board. After a moment Duncan nodded.

“That was the Maid. They managed to repair their radio. Andrea didn’t have time to smash it thoroughly before. They’re talking to a patrol boat.”

Olcott’s teeth showed. “Well?”

“We don’t want to be stopped—now.” Duncan fingered the controls. The bellow of rockets grew louder. A shuddering vibration rocked the little cruiser.

“Not too fast!” Hartman said warningly. “This ship crashed once. It’s still weak.”

For answer Duncan only increased the power. The thunder of the tubes grew deafening. Already they had crossed the Lunar Line, heading outward in the plane of the ecliptic.

Duncan rose and went to the spacesuit that held Andrea’s body. He wrenched the intertron knob free from the Helmet.

“We want no Varra spy here.” The knob was not glowing, and, without power, the Varra was not en rapport with the Helmet, but Duncan was taking no chances.

Grimly he went back to the controls. Hartman and Olcott watched him, vainly trying to fight back their fear.

The heavy, crashing roar of the rockets mounted to a deafening crescendo.

IV

The Destroying Avenger

Named after the Greek god of the underworld, desolate, lifeless and forbidding as Hell itself, Pluto revolved in its tremendous orbit, between thirty-seven hundred million and four thousand million miles from the Sun. Such distances are staggeringly inconceivable when we attempt to use human yardsticks. Men cannot stand the strain of such voyages without special precautions. Suspended animation is usual on the long hops, and Duncan had made use of the cataleptic drug he found at hand in the cruiser’s emergency supply locker.

For a long time the three men had been unconscious as the ship, with increasing acceleration, hurled itself toward Pluto. Duncan had carefully measured the Sherman units of the drug, calculating so that he would awaken hours before the others. But he forgot one thing—the terrific resistance khlar builds up within the human body.

So it was Rudy Hartman who first opened his eyes, groaned, and stared uncomprehendingly about him. He was strapped in a bunk, Duncan and Olcott near by. Memory came back.

Sick and weak from the long period of catalepsy, Hartman nevertheless forced his aching limbs into motion. Staggering, he presently reached Duncan and took the latter’s gun. That done, he searched for a means of binding his captive securely.

The bunk-straps were of flexible metal—not long enough, but they might serve a purpose. Hartman, scarcely conscious of his actions, fumbled at a panel and slid it back. Within the cubicle spacesuits were stacked, each with its Varra Helmet, Olcott had ordered them removed when Hartman was repairing the vessel, but the scientist had not obeyed. He had not felt entirely certain that the cruiser would not be detected by the Plutonians, and perhaps he had felt a twinge of compunction at the thought of sending a helpless man to possible suicide, if his theory proved wrong. So he had concealed the Helmets behind a panel. Now he blessed the lucky chance that had made him do so.

Duncan was still unconscious. Hartman rolled him out of the bunk and dressed him in a suit, fitting the Varra Helmet in place. With the flexible straps he bound Duncan’s arms to his side; a makeshift job, but it would serve. Finally he pried the intertron knob from the Helmet and sighed with relief.

Hesitantly he went to the controls. The star-map told him little, except that they were approaching Pluto. Should they begin deceleration? Hartman’s fingers hovered over the studs—Damn! He dared not alter the course. He wasn’t a pilot, and it took trained hands to control a spaceship.

Well, that didn’t matter. There was another way—with the Varra Helmets.

He broke an ammonia capsule under Olcott’s nose and applied artificial respiration. After a time Olcott stirred.

“Hartman?” His tongue was thick. “Where—what’s happened?”

“A great deal. Lie still and get back your strength. I’ll tell you—”

But Olcott struggled to rise. “Duncan!”

“He’s safe.” Hartman nodded toward the bound figure. Then he sucked in his breath and sprang up. Duncan’s eyes were open.

“Stay where you are,” Hartman said, showing the gun. “I won’t hesitate to kill you, you know.”

Duncan grinned. “Go ahead. You can’t pilot this ship. I can wait.”

Olcott got up unsteadily. “You’ll pilot it—back to Earth. Damn you, Duncan—”

“I’ll pilot it to Pluto. Nowhere else.”

Hartman intervened. “Wait. Listen, Duncan. We have several Varra Helmets aboard. You didn’t know that.”

“So what?”

“We do not need you as a pilot. If we make connections with the Varra, we can chart a course back to Earth by letting them instruct us.”

Duncan’s eyes changed.

He said, “You’re crazy.” But his voice lacked conviction.

“The Varra!” Olcott scowled. “But—”

Hartman whirled on him. “I know! It will mean giving up the radium. But there’s no other way. We’re near Pluto. The Plutonians may detect us at any moment. If they do—” He shrugged. “We can keep the radium and die here. Or we can use the Helmets, summon the Varra, and have them guide us back to Earth.”

“Can they do that?”

“Easily. If they had tangible bodies, they could pilot spaceships as well as Duncan, or anyone else. As it is, they can tell us how to handle the controls.”

“We’ll lose the radium. It’ll mean prison too.”

“Not necessarily. Our lives are worth more than the radium—eh? And the Varra can’t read minds. Suppose we have a convincing story to tell? We planned this spaceflight as a scientific expedition, nothing more. We didn’t know Duncan was an escaped convict. We didn’t know he planned to hijack the Maid—”

Olcott rubbed his mustache. “Plenty of holes in that. But you’re right. We can fix up some sort of story. And there’ll be no legal proof—”

He looked toward the helpless Duncan. “Except him. We don’t want him talking.”

Hartman touched the gun, but Olcott shook his head. “No. Listen. Duncan. You’re licked. We can get back to Earth, with you or without you. But if we get the Varra to help, we lose the radium. Why not be smart? Play along with us, and you’ll still get your half a million credits.”

“Go to hell!” Duncan suggested.

Hartman said, “We’ve no time to waste. We’re not far from Pluto—” He didn’t finish, but there was a suggestion of panic fear in his voice.

“Right. This ship’s got an escape hatch, hasn’t it? Good.” Olcott hurriedly began to don spacesuit and Varra Helmet. At a gesture, Hartman followed his example.

“Don’t use the power yet. Help me.” Olcott picked up Duncan by the shoulders. Grunting and straining, the two men carried their captive into the airtight bow chamber, sealing the valve behind them. The magnetic projector, looking like an oversized cannon, faced the circular transparent port through which they could see the starry darkness of empty space.

“Know how to work one of these?”

“They’re simple,” Hartman said. “This switch—” He indicated it. “Obviously it closes the circuit. Yes, I can operate this.”

Duncan remained silent as he was roughly thrust into the projector’s gaping muzzle, feet-first. Olcott bent over him.

“You’ve got auxiliary-suit rockets and enough oxygen. And you can untie yourself, if you work fast, before you hit Pluto. You can make a safe landing—till the Plutonians find you. Well?”

Duncan didn’t answer.

Olcott said, “Don’t be a fool! You’ll die rather unpleasantly on Pluto. You know that. Will you take us back to Earth?”

There was a long silence. Abruptly, with a muffled curse, Olcott snapped Duncan’s faceplate shut, and then his own. Hartman did the same, and, with a wry face, touched the power-button on his Helmet that would summon the Varra.

In a moment the intertron knob began to glow, with a cold, unearthly brilliance. Olcott hastily turned the power on in his own Helmet. Now there was no time to waste. Soon the Varra would come. …

Cold eyes dark with fury, Olcott gestured. Hartman, in response, swung the projector’s muzzle into position; both men closed their faceplates. The transparent shield of the bow port slid aside, and the air within the escape hatch blasted out into space.

Hartman moved a lever. Electromagnetic energy blasted out from the projector, blindingly brilliant. One flashing glimpse the men had of Duncan’s bound, spacesuited body hurtling into the void—and then it was gone, racing toward Pluto at breakneck speed.

Hartman closed the port and pumped air back into the tiny chamber. Abruptly a voice spoke within his brain.

“Who are you? Why do you summon the Varra? And why are you so near to Pluto?”

Olcott had heard the message too. He framed the thought: “You are a Varra? We need help.”

“We are Varra. What help do you require?”

Olcott explained.

He had fallen for many minutes. Beneath him the jagged darkness of Pluto lay, cryptic and forbidding. It was time to use the rockets, but still Duncan hesitated, though he had freed himself from his bonds. The flares would certainly attract the attention of the Plutonian mind-vampires, and then—

A shadow occulted the stars. For a moment Duncan thought it was a meteor; then he recognized the cruiser. Jets screened, almost invisible, it was still driving on its course toward Pluto!

He did not stop to ponder the reason. Instinct sent his gloved fingers to the studs built into his suit. The tiny emergency rockets burned white in the darkness of space. Duncan was hurled toward the cruiser. Involuntarily he held his breath, looking downward at the vast circle of Pluto. Would he die now?

The rockets had flared only briefly; perhaps they had not been noticed. He did not use them again. Instead, he waited, moving steadily onward with no atmosphere to slow him down by its friction. The gravitation of Pluto pulled at both man and ship, but each fell at the same rate—no! The cruiser was pulling away! That meant its masked tubes were still on.

Duncan risked another jet. This time his space-boots thumped solidly on the hull. He levered himself toward the side port, which could be opened from without, unless it had been locked. True, when the valve slid aside, the ship’s air would be lost in space, and anyone within the cruiser would die. Duncan grinned savagely. Bracing himself awkwardly, he tugged at levers.

The port opened. Duncan was almost flung away from the ship by the blast of air that gusted out. He recovered his balance, swung himself across the threshold—

At his feet lay two spacesuited bodies, Olcott and Hartman. The faceplates of their Varra Helmets were open, but they had not died of lack of oxygen. That was evident. The frozen, strained whiteness of their features told a different story that Duncan read instantly. The Plutonians had brought death to Hartman and Olcott; they had died in the same manner as Andrea.

Duncan closed the port behind him, his face expressionless. Inwardly he was tense as wire, in momentary expectation of cold fury striking at his brain. He stood waiting.

The star-map on the instrument panel flared. That meant atmosphere ahead. Duncan was at the controls in two strides. His number might be up, but he had no intention of dying in a crash—not while there was still a possibility of revenging himself on the Plutonian creatures.

He checked the ship’s course, decelerating as much as he dared. So keyed-up were his nerves that he jumped sharply when a voice spoke inside his brain.

“Who are you, Earthman? Why are you here?”

Before Duncan could frame a response, he felt a thrill of sudden urgency flame through him. Something, cold and deadly as space itself, reached into his mind. There was an instant of sickening giddiness—

It was gone. The sky-screen flamed crimson. The cruiser was within Pluto’s atmosphere blanket.

Duncan gasped for breath. He was scarcely conscious of manipulating the cruiser, leveling off into a long, swooping glide. Death had touched him very nearly—and had been avoided miraculously by a fantastically small margin. The implications of what had happened turned Duncan white with incredulous shock.

For the thing that had been en rapport with his mind had tried to kill him. And that thing had been not a Plutonian, but a Varra! Duncan was certain of that. In his space-piloting days he had been in close touch with the Varra, and had learned the distinctive feel of the creatures—there was no other word—within his mind.

But the Varra were friendly to Earthmen!

The rough terrain of Pluto lay below. A cold, bluish radiance, almost invisible, seemed to flicker here and there. Duncan set the ship down with trained skill, landing on a broad plateau at the base of a high range of alps.

He was on Pluto, shunned and feared by Earthmen for a hundred and fifty years. He was in the very lair of the mind-vampires.

And nothing happened.

Slowly Duncan rose and turned the valves on the oxygen tanks. He divested himself of his spacesuit and made a careful examination of the two bodies. Both Olcott and Hartman had been killed, apparently, by the Plutonians. They had the stigmata.

But Duncan was thinking a rather impossible thought—that there were no Plutonians.

With half of his mind he made tests. There was atmosphere, almost pure chlorine. Nor was it unduly cold. An electroscope gave him the answer. Pluto was a radioactive planet, warmed from within by the powerful radiations of the ore.

Duncan took the dead Olcott’s helmet and adjusted it upon himself. Turning on the power made the intertron knob glow, but there was no other result. The Varra, of course, could not safely venture within the Heaviside Layer of any planet, and Pluto had a Layer, since it had an atmosphere. Chlorine—radium—Duncan shook his head, trying to fit the puzzle together.

There were no Plutonians. Why, then, had the Varra fostered the legend of the mind-vampires? Creatures composed of pure energy could not exist on a radioactive planet; the radiations would be fatal to their complicated electronic structures.

Duncan thought for a long time. At last he had the answer, so astoundingly simple that he found it difficult to believe. But it checked. And that meant—

He rose and went slowly to where Andrea’s body lay, still in the spacesuit, her face composed and lovely in death. Duncan’s lips twisted. He knelt.

“Andrea—”

She was trying to tell him something, he thought. What?

“Tell Earth what I’ve found out? Is that it?”

He hesitated. “It’s no use. We’re forty thousand million miles from the Sun. The radio won’t carry that far, even if it’d get through the Heaviside Layer on Pluto. There’s no way to send a message back.”

There was no way. Nor could the cruiser retrace its course. There was not enough fuel left. The jets would be exhausted before Saturn’s orbit was reached, and the speed would increase as the ship plunged Sunward, increase to a point where deceleration would be impossible.

“There’s no way, Andrea. I can’t send the message—”

Duncan stopped. There was a way, after all, though it meant death.

He seated himself before the radio-recorder and adjusted it to automatic-repeat. His message would be imprinted on metal wire-tape, and continue to be sent out into the void till the ship itself was destroyed.

Duncan pulled the microphone toward him. His voice was coldly emotionless.

“C.Q.X. C.Q.X. Recorded on Pluto. All ships copy. Relay to proper authorities. Pluto is uninhabited. Its atmosphere is pure chlorine. No life-form known to science can exist in a chlorine atmosphere or on a radioactive world. The Plutonian mind-vampires do not exist. The legend was created by the Varra for their own purposes. The actual mind-vampires are the Varra themselves.”

Now it would be theorizing, but Duncan was certain that his guess was correct.

“The Varra live on life energy. When man conquered space, they foresaw danger to themselves. They are vulnerable, and if Earth suspected their motives, they’d be relentlessly destroyed. So—as I see it—they pretended to be friendly, and blamed the mind-vampirism on imaginary creatures living on Pluto. The Varra can communicate with us without the need for Helmets. They can kill too. But they seldom do that. Instead, pretending to protect space-travelers from the Plutonians, they drain a certain amount of life-energy from each person wearing a Helmet. We’re like cattle to them. We think they’re friendly, and so far we haven’t suspected the truth. As long as we didn’t suspect, the Varra were safe, and could keep on vampirizing us, without our knowledge. Once in a while a Varra badly in need of energy would drain too much, which would kill its host.”

That was what had happened to Andrea. The Varra had tried to stop her from wrecking the Maid’s radio, and—Duncan’s teeth showed.

He went on telling his story, explaining what had happened. He made no excuses; there was no need for them now.

Finally he said: “The Varra can be destroyed. And we can protect ourselves against them. That’ll be up to the scientists. If this ship gets through, it will mean that the Varra couldn’t stop me. I’ve got radium aboard. So I’ll put a Heaviside Layer around the cruiser—and blast off Sunward.”

Duncan clicked the switch. No need to say more. Earth would understand, would believe.

But now—

He opened the port, after donning a suit and Helmet, and let the ship fill with the chlorine atmosphere. It would be better than oxygen, for his purposes. Iodine vapor would be even more effective, but he could not create that. If only he were a scientist, a technician, he could probably discover some other way of creating an artificial Heaviside Layer.

But it didn’t matter. This way was surest and quickest, and there would be no machinery to fail him.

Sealed within the ship once more, Duncan found the shipment of Martian radium, hijacked from the Maid, and removed it from its thick leaden container. He left it exposed, and went to the controls.

The cruiser lifted from the surface of the plateau. It slanted up through the chlorine atmosphere, rockets bellowing.

There was no need for split-second timing or unusual accuracy—within certain limits. He was heading Sunward. Nothing more was necessary. Except power—

The tubes thundered with ravening fury. The cruiser blasted up, acceleration jamming Duncan back into his seat. Then they were out of the air-envelope, in free space, controls locked. There was nothing more to do now but to drive on. The rockets would blast their fury into the void till the fuel was exhausted. Even then, the ship would speed on, into the tracks of commerce and the orbits of the inhabited planets.

On the visiplate specks of light glimmered, resolving themselves into a nebulous cloud—the Varra.

It was the final proof. Duncan was the first man who had ever landed on Pluto. The Varra intended to destroy him, giving him no opportunity of telling what he knew to Earth.

Duncan checked the radio. It was repeating his message, sending it steadily into space. At this distance from the Sun there was no chance that it would be picked up. But later—

He clicked the power on in his Helmet. There was no response. The Varra, as he had thought, could not penetrate his artificial barrier, his pseudo-Heaviside Layer.

It was nothing, actually, but a blanket of ionization. But the Varra could not break through it. Duncan glanced at the exposed radium on the floor. A pound of it, sending out its powerful emanations, gamma, beta and electrons, ionizing the chlorine even more effectively than it would have affected oxygen—invisible armor, protecting Duncan from the Varra.

They were massing ahead, determined to stop him. Thoughts began to penetrate his mind, furtive, random, but indications that the group power of the Varra was stronger than he had expected.

Duncan seated himself at a panel, the one controlling the blaster cannons. His face, haggard and strained, twisted in a bitter smile.

“Okay, Andrea,” he whispered. “I’m taking the message back for you. But I’m doing this—for myself! Because they killed you, damn them—”

The chill tentacles probed deeper into Duncan’s brain. He swung a cannon into position, pressed a stud, and watched a streak of electronic energy go blasting across space, silent thunder in the void, smashing relentlessly at the Varra. It struck in a maelstrom of flame.

“Vulnerable!” Duncan said, “Yeah, they’re vulnerable as all hell!”

The Varra closed in. Through their massed ranks the cannon blazed and pounded, till space seemed afire. The rocking recoil of the blasts, mingled with the booming of the rockets, thudded in Duncan’s ears even through the Helmet.

And he fought them. There were no witnesses to that battle, none to see the black cruiser plunging on through the cloud of attackers, belching Jove’s lightning, shaking with the vibrations of its murder-madness. For the spaceship was mad, Duncan thought, a relentless, destroying avenger, a dark angel bringing the terror of Armageddon to the Varra. And the energy-beings never paused; their life and their future was in the scales. If Duncan broke through, they were doomed. He must be stopped.

They could not stop him! Almost blind with the agony burning within his brain, Saul Duncan nevertheless hunched over the controls, while the cannons thundered their demoniac message into space. By dozens and hundreds the Varra died, their energy-matrices wrenched and broken by the electronic bolts. Duncan and the ship were one—and both were mad.

He got through. He had to. Nothing could have stopped Saul Duncan, not even the Varra. In the end, the black cruiser raced Sunward, cannons silent, for the Varra were scattered.

Duncan got up wearily. He stood above Andrea’s body, watching the still features, the long lashes that would never rise.

“It’s done,” he said. “Finished. Earth will get the message—”

Earth would get the message. The Varra could not stop the cruiser now, and the radio would continue to send out its signal till the fires of the Sun swallowed the black ship.

Duncan knelt. His legs were weak. The radium, of course. His suit could not protect him from the fatal radiations of a pound of the pure ore. But the stuff had served its purpose. It had kept the Varra at a distance till Duncan could fulfill his vengeance.

And now it would kill him—unless he replaced it in the leaden casket. But even that might not work now.

Duncan shrugged. It was better to die of radium burns than by the power of the Varra.

He would be dead long before then.

But the Varra would be hunted down, ruthlessly slain, their power broken forever. Earth-science would destroy them, as they themselves had slain so many, as they had killed Andrea.

The bellow of the rockets died. The ship held true to its course, plunging on faster and faster toward the sunlit worlds where men knew joy and laughter and happiness. It would go on, to the funeral pyre of the Sun.

But it would leave a message in its wake.

Crypt-City of the Deathless One

I

Icy water splashed into Ed Garth’s face and dripped down his tattered, grimy shirt. It was a tremendous effort to open his eyes. Fumes of the native Ganymedean rotgut liquor were swimming in his brain.

Someone was shaking him roughly. Garth’s stocky body jerked convulsively. He struck out, his drink-swollen face twisted with frightened fury, and gasped, “Ylgana! Vo m’trana al-khron—”

The hand on his shoulder fell away. Someone said, “That’s it, Paula! The Ancient Tongue!”

And a girl’s voice, doubtful, a little disgusted.

“You’re sure? But how in the System did this—this—”

“Bum. Tramp,” Garth muttered, peering blearily at the pale ovals of unfocused faces above him. “Don’t mind me, sister. Beachcomber is the word—drunk, right now. So please get the hell out and let me finish my bottle.”

More water was sluiced on Garth. He shook his head, groaning, and saw Tolomo, the Ganymedean trader, scowling down at him. The native’s three-pupiled eyes were angry.

English hissed, oddly accented, on his tongue.

“You wake up, Garth! Hear me? This is a job for you. You owe me too much already. These people come looking for you, say they want a guide. Now you do what they want, and pay me for all that liquor you buy on credit.”

“Sure,” Garth said wearily. “Tomorrow. Not now.”

Tolomo snorted. “I get you native guides, Captain Brown. They know way to Chahnn.”

The man’s voice said stubbornly, “I don’t want natives. I want Ed Garth.”

“Well, you won’t get him,” Garth growled, pillowing his head on his arms. “This joint smells already, but you make it worse. Beat it.”

He did not see Captain Brown slip Tolomo a folded credit-current. The trader deftly pocketed the money, nodded, and gripped Garth by the hair, lifting his head. The bluish, inhuman face was thrust into the Earthman’s.

“Listen to me, Garth,” Tolomo said, fairly spitting the words. “I let you come in here and get drunk all the time on the cuff. You pay me a little, not much, whenever you gather enough alka-roots to sell. But you owe plenty. People ask me why I let a bum like you come to my Moonflower-Ritz Bar—”

“That’s a laugh,” Garth mouthed. “A ramshackle plastic flophouse full of cockroaches and bad liquor. Moonflower-Ritz, hogwash!”

“Shut up,” Tolomo snapped. “I let you run up a bill here when nobody else would. Now you take this job and pay me or I have the marshal put you in jail. At hard labor, in the swamps.”

Garth called Tolomo something unprintable. “Okay,” he groaned. “You win, louse. You know damn well no Earthman can stand swampwork, even with bog-shoes. Now let go of my hair before I smash your teeth in.”

“You do it? You guide these people?”

“I said I would, didn’t I?” Garth reached fumblingly for the bottle before him. Someone thrust a filled glass into his hand. He gulped the fiery purplish liquor, shuddered, and blew out his breath.

“Okay,” he said. “Welcome to Ganymede, the pleasure spot of the System. The worst climate outside Hell, the only world almost completely unexplored, and the nicest place for going to the dogs I’ve ever seen. The Chamber of Commerce greets you. Here’s the representative.” He pointed to a six-legged lizard with the face of a gargoyle that scuttled over the table and leaped into the shadows where the light of the radio-lamp did not reach.

Captain Brown said, “I can offer you fifty dollars to guide us to the ruined city—Chahnn. And, maybe, I can offer you ten thousand bucks to do another little job for us.”

The shock of that was more effective than cold water had been. Garth jerked back, for the first time looking at his companions. There were two of them—a man and a girl, their neat tropical outfits looking out of a place in this grimy dive. The man was thin and bronzed, looking as though all the moisture had been boiled out of him by hot suns. He was made of tough leather, Garth thought. His face was the most expressionless one Garth had ever seen—pale, shallow eyes, a rattrap mouth, and the general air of a tiger taking it easy.

The girl … sudden sick pain struck through Garth. She looked like Moira. For an incredible moment he thought, with his liquor-dulled mind, that she had come back. But Moira was dead—had been, for nearly five years now.

Five years of living death—hitting the skids on Ganymede, where men go down fast. Garth’s ravaged face hardened. He forced himself to look squarely at the girl.

She wasn’t Moira, after all. She had the same look of sleek, clean femininity, but her hair was golden-red instead of brown, and her eyes were greenish, not blue. The softness in her face was belied by the stubborn, rounded chin.

“Ten thousand?” Garth repeated softly. “I don’t get the picture. Any native could take you to Chahnn.”

The girl said, “We know that. We’re interested in—something else. Could you use ten grand?”

“Yeah! Yeah, I could,” Garth said.

“What would you do with it? Go back to Earth? We might swing it so you could get a job there. There’s been a shortage of men ever since the Silver Plague started.”

Garth laid his fingers gently around the glass and squeezed, till the transparent plastic was bent out of shape. He didn’t look at the girl.

“I’m through with Earth. If I could collect—ten thousand?—I’d commit suicide, in a very funny way. I’d go into the Black Forest. The money could get me the men and equipment I’d need, but—well, nobody gets out of the Black Forest alive.”

“You did,” Captain Brown said.

“Eh? You heard about that?”

“We’ve heard stories—plenty of them. About how you came out of the Black Forest six years ago, raving with fever and talking in a language nobody could understand. And how you’ve been taking trips into the Forest ever since. Just what happened? I know you tried to get up expeditions to rescue a man named Willard—he was with you, wasn’t he?”

Garth felt again that sick deadness in his brain—the monstrous question that had been tormenting him for five years now. Abruptly he slammed his fist on the table. Tolomo’s face appeared behind a curtain and vanished again as Brown waved him back.

“Forget it,” Garth said. “Even on Ganymede, men mind their own business—usually.”

Brown stroked his cheek with a calloused thumb. “Suit yourself. Here’s the setup, then. It’s strictly confidential, or the deal’s off. You’ll know why later. Anyhow—we want you to guide us into the Black Forest.”

Garth’s laughter rang harsh and bitter. Brown and the girl watched him with impassive eyes.

“What’s so funny about it?” she asked, scowling.

Garth sobered. “Nothing much. Only for five years I’ve been sweating blood trying to get into the Forest, and I know the place better than anybody on Ganymede. See this?” He rolled up his sleeve and exhibited a purplish scar along his arm. “A cannibal-plant did that. I couldn’t get away from the thing. Bullets and knives don’t hurt the bloodsucker. I had to stand there for two hours, helpless, till it got all the blood it wanted. After that I managed to pull away.”

“I’ve picked up a few scars myself,” Brown said quietly.

Garth glared at him. “Not in the Black Forest. The only way to get through that pesthole is with a big, armed expedition. Even then … you ever heard of the Noctoli?”

“No. Who—”

“Flowers. Their pollen works funny—plenty funny. They grow in the interior, and they give you amnesia. Not even gas-masks help. The stuff works in through your skin.”

“Doesn’t it affect you?” the girl wanted to know.

Garth shivered and drank again. “It did—once. Later I managed to work out an antitoxin. And I’ve built up immunity, anyway. But it’s quite a laugh. The two of you wanting to go into the Black Forest!”

Brown’s face was emotionless. “With an expedition, well armed. I’ll provide that.”

“Oh. That’s a bit different. Just the same—what are you after?”

“Just sightseeing,” the girl said.

Garth grinned crookedly. “Okay. I know the stories. Everybody on Ganymede’s heard of the Ancients.”

Captain Brown’s eyes hooded. “What about them?”

“The lost race? That they lived on Ganymede thousands of years ago, and had the greatest science ever known to the System. That they died, nobody knows how, and the secrets of their civilization were lost. Chahnn’s only one of their ruined cities. There’ve been a dozen others found. And full of gadgets and robots that nobody knows how to work. There was a central power-source, but Earthmen have never figured out how it worked or what fuel was used. The inscriptions found in the cities didn’t tell anything.”

“Fair enough,” Brown nodded. “Except you forgot one thing. You know the Ancient Tongue. You speak it.”

Garth chewed his lip. “So what?”

“Where did you learn it?”

“I don’t know. In the Black Forest, I suppose. I don’t remember.”

The girl made an impatient gesture. She quieted as Brown glanced at her.

“From the Zarno, Garth?”

“I don’t know! There’s no proof the Zarno even exist!”

“If you’ve gone far enough into the Black Forest—”

Garth said angrily, “Remember what I told you about the Noctoli? The effect of the pollen? When I got back to Oreport here I had amnesia. I—” He hesitated. “I don’t remember. I never did remember what happened in the Black Forest.”

“Um‑m.” Brown rubbed his cheek again. “A lost race of savages no outsiders have ever seen—a race speaking the tongue of the Ancients. How could they live around those Noctoli flowers of yours?”

“Natural immunity,” Garth said. “Built up over a period of generations. I didn’t have that—then.”

The girl leaned forward, ignoring Brown. “Mr. Garth,” she said swiftly, “I think I’d better explain a bit more. Shut up, Carver!” She frowned at Brown. “There’ve been too many mysteries. Here’s the setup. I’ve got half of a—a map. It shows the location of something in the Black Forest that’s immensely valuable—the greatest treasure the System’s ever known. I don’t know what it is. The original inscription, in the Ancient’s language, is cryptic as the devil. But the Ancients thought this treasure important enough to be worth hiding in the Black Forest. They set the Zarno to guard it. See?”

Garth grunted. “So what?”

“Well—I’m Paula Trent, archaeologist. Not that it matters. For months Carver and I have been waiting our chance to fit out an expedition and come on here. We didn’t have the money, at first, and when we did get it, the government refused us permission. We had no proof, they said, and the Black Forest is impenetrable. So we waited. A month ago we got wind of a research ship, the Hunter, coming on here to investigate Chahnn. The same old stuff—digging around in the ruins, trying to find out what made the machines and robots tick, trying to make sense out of the inscriptions. Trying to find a cure for the Silver Plague.”

Garth said, “No cure’s been found yet, then.”

Paula shook her head. “No. Since it started on Earth ten years ago, it’s wiped out one-twentieth of the population, and unless it’s stopped, it’ll destroy all life on our world. But that’s old stuff. Except the government’s sending out their best men to Ganymede, because it’s known the Silver Plague existed here once and was conquered. The inscriptions in Chahnn show that. But they don’t say what the treatment was, or give any hints. However—” She brushed red-gold hair from her forehead. “Carver and I have planted men in the Hunter crew. Tough, good men who’ll strike out with us into the Black Forest. With equipment.”

“Desertion, eh?”

“Technically, sure. But the only way. Nobody will listen to us. We know—we know—the Ancients hid their most valuable treasure in the Black Forest. What it is we don’t know. We’re hoping it’ll solve a lot of problems—the mystery of what powered their machines, what happened to the Ancients—all that.”

“No planes can be used,” Garth said. “There’s no place to land in the Forest.”

“That’s why we want you. You know the Forest, and you know the Ancient Tongue. Guide the Hunter crew to Chahnn. Then, when we give the word—head for the Black Forest with us.”

Garth said, “On one condition. You can’t go.”

Paula’s eyes narrowed. “You’re in no position to—”

“Men might get through. A woman couldn’t. Take it or leave it,” Garth repeated stubbornly.

Captain Brown nodded to the girl. “All right, it’s a deal. Sorry, Paula, but he’s on the beam. Here’s ten bucks, Garth. Balance when we get to Chahnn. We leave tomorrow at Jupiter-rise.”

Garth didn’t answer. After a moment Paula and Brown rose and went out through the mildewed tapestry curtain. Garth didn’t blame them. The Moonflower-Ritz smelled.

Presently he found Tolomo and gave him the money. The Ganymedean hissed worriedly.

“Only ten?”

“You’ll get the rest later. Gimme a bottle.”

“I don’t think—”

Garth reached across the bar and seized a quart. “Hereafter I do my drinking out-of-doors,” he remarked. “I’ll feel cleaner.”

“Sfant!” Tolomo flung after him as he headed for the door. Garth’s cheeks burned red at the word, which is Ganymedean and untranslatable; but he didn’t turn. He stepped out into the muddy street, a cold wind, sulphurous and strong, stinging his nostrils.

He looked around at the collection of plastic native huts. Till the Hunter had arrived, he’d been the only Earthman in Oretown. Now—

He didn’t feel like talking to natives. The Tor towered against the purple sky, where three of Jupiter’s moons were glowing lanterns. At the base of the Tor was Garth’s shack.

Swaying a little, clutching the bottle, he headed in that direction. He had waited five years for this moment. Now, when at last he might find the answer to the problem that had turned him into a derelict, he was afraid.

He went into his hut, switched on the radiolite, and stood staring at a door he had not opened for a long time. With a little sigh he pushed at the latch. The smell of musty rot drifted out.

A lamp revealed a complete medical laboratory, one that had not, apparently, been used for months at least. Garth almost dropped a bottle as he fumbled it from the shelf. Cursing, he opened the rotgut Ganymedean whiskey and poured it down his throat.

That helped. Steadied somewhat, he went to work. The Noctoli pollen antitoxin was still here, but it might have lost its efficacy.

He tested it.

Good. It seemed strong, the antibodies having a long life-cycle. It would work.

Garth packed a compact medical kit. After that he stood for quite a while staring at two blank spaces on the wall, where pictures had once hung.

Moira and Doc Willard.

Damn! Garth snatched up the liquor and fled the house. He fought his way along the steep path that led to the Tor’s summit. The physical exertion was a relief.

At the top, he sat down, his back against a rock. Beneath him lay Oretown, yellow-blue lights winking dimly. In a cleared field some distance away was the ovoid shape of the spaceship that had brought Paula and Brown—the Hunter.

To the west, across sandy desert, lay Chahnn, dead city that had once housed an incredibly-advanced science—lost now, its people dust. Northwest, beyond distant ridges, was the Black Forest, unexplored, secret, menacing.

Six years ago Dr. Jem Willard had come to Ganymede with his intern, Ed Garth. Willard was trying to discover the cure for the Silver Plague that was wrecking Earth. He would have found it—he had got on the track. But—

An emergency call had come in one night. A native needed an appendectomy. Willard couldn’t fly a plane. He had called on Garth, and Garth had been drunk.

But he had piloted the plane anyhow. The crack-up happened over the Black Forest.

That was the last thing Garth remembered, or almost the last. It would have been more merciful if the oblivion had been complete. Months later he staggered out of the Forest into Oretown, alone. The Noctoli poison had almost erased his experiences from his mind. He could remember a bare cell where he and Willard had been prisoned—that, and one other thing.

A picture of Doc Willard stretched on an altar, while Garth lifted a gleaming, razor-sharp knife above his friend’s breast.

He remembered that, but no more. It was enough.

The question burning in his brain had nearly wrecked his sanity. He had tried to get back into the Black Forest, to find Willard, dead or alive, to learn what had happened—to discover the answer to his problem. He had failed.

A year later he learned that his fiancée, Moira, had died of the Silver Plague. And he knew that Willard might have saved her, had he lived and continued his research.

After that, Ed Garth hit the skids. He went down fast, stopping only when he reached the bottom.

He killed the bottle and threw it out into emptiness, watching yellow light glint on glass as it dropped.

Well, he had his chance now. An expedition going into the Black Forest. But Garth was no longer the same husky giant who had fought his way through that deadly jungle. Five years on the skids had played havoc with him. Stamina was gone. And the Black Forest was as terrible, as powerful, as ever.

Garth wished he had brought another bottle.

II

Jupiter is a ball of luminous clouded marble, gigantic in the sky of Ganymede. Its light is a queer, pale glow that lacks the warm brilliance of sunlight. When the titanic planet lifts over the horizon, gravity seems to shift, and the ground feels unstable beneath your feet.

Jupiter was rising now. Oretown lay ugly and desolate in the strange dawn. Across the plain where the spaceship had landed a string of truck-cats, big silvery desert freighters, stood motionless, ready to start the trip. There were signs of activity. At the central port of the Hunter stood a lanky, gray-haired man with a clipped, stiff Van Dyke. Behind him was Captain Brown.

Garth, his medical kit strapped to his back, ploughed through the light film of snow that lay over the sand. He was shivering in his thin garments, wishing he had a drink. Neither Brown nor his companion saw Garth’s approach. The gray-haired man was speaking.

“—time to start. If this guide of yours doesn’t show up, we’ll have to wait till we find another.”

“He’ll show up,” Brown said. “I only gave him ten bucks.”

Garth reached the foot of the ramp leading up to the port-valve. “ ’Morning. Am I late?”

There was no answer. He climbed the slope, slippery with snow despite the skid-treads, and stopped before the two men. Brown nodded at him.

“Here’s our guide, Commander Benson.”

Benson scowled incredulously under tufted brows. “What the devil! You—you’re an Earthman!”

“Sure,” Garth said. “What about it?”

The Commander glanced at Brown. “I expected a native. I didn’t know—” He left the sentence hanging. “You can’t wear those rags, man. Captain, break out some clothes for him.” Without another look at Garth, Benson hurried down the ramp, shouting orders to someone below.

Brown grinned at the other. “Come on inside,” he urged, and, in a lower tone, “He’s the big shot. You know enough to keep your mouth shut—eh?”

Garth nodded. Brown peered at him sharply.

“You need coffee. I’ll lace it. Come along.” He took Garth to the galley, and, presently, supplied food, drink, and clothing. He lit a cigarette, idly watching the smoke sucked into the air-conditioning grill.

“Benson’s a tough egg,” he said at last. “If he had the slightest idea we were figuring on—what we’re figuring on, there’d be trouble. The Commander never takes chances. We’ve got to give him the slip, somehow.”

Garth gulped coffee. “How many men do you have?”

“Ten.”

“Not many.”

“Fully armed, though. There are sixty in the expedition altogether, but I could only feel sure of ten. Some of them I planted myself.”

Garth took the cigarette Brown handed him. “Thanks … I know Chahnn pretty well. Once we get there, we can get away from the others.”

“How?”

“Underground passages—not well known. We’ll come out about thirty miles from Chahnn, and from there it’s another twenty to the Black Forest.”

“The last lap on open ground?”

“Yeah.”

“Not so good. If Benson misses us, he’ll have planes out scouting. I’ve a hunch he’s suspicious already.”

“If he catches up with us, so what? There’ll be other chances.”

“That’s what you think,” Brown said grimly. “I told you Benson was a tough egg. He’d clap us all in the brig and we’d end up with prison sentences on Earth—hazarding the success of a planetary expedition, they call it. So you see why we’ve got to find this treasure, whatever it is.”

“Then you don’t know either, eh?”

“Maybe I’ve a few ideas. … Finished? Let’s go, then.” Brown came to his feet.

Garth followed Brown out of the ship, pondering. The Ancients had, admittedly, been an incredibly advanced race. Any treasure they thought worth guarding would be plenty valuable. Gold? Gems? They seemed trivial, compared to the tremendous scientific powers of the Ancients. And unimportant as well, while the Silver Plague raged over Earth.

They moved along the string of truck-cats, each loaded with the necessary equipment, and reached the first. Commander Benson was already there, talking to the pilot. He looked around.

“Ready? What’s your name—Garth? All right, get in.”

The front compartment of the truck-cat was roomy enough. Paula Trent, Garth saw, was already there. She gave no sign that she noticed him. He shrugged and found a seat, and Captain Brown dropped beside him, impassive as ever.

The pilot came in. “Sit up here, next to me, buddy,” he ordered. “I’ll need your help wrestling this tank through the arroyos.”

Benson himself was the last man to enter. He slid the door shut and nodded.

“Warm her up.”

Beside the driver, Garth could not see the others, nor could he hear their conversation as the motors coughed and snarled into life. The truck-cat lurched forward on her caterpillar treads. The pilot looked inquiringly at Garth.

“Where’ll I head? West? What about these quicksands I’ve been hearing about?”

“Steer for that mountain peak ’way over there,” Garth told him. “It’s easy to see the sinkholes. They’re big grey patches on the sand, with no snow on ’em.”

The roar of the engine died into a monotonous murmur. It was possible to hear the conversation in the rear of the compartment. Commander Benson was talking.

“—atomic power. It must have been that; there’s no other answer. All we need to know is the nature of the booster charge.”

“I don’t get it,” Paula said. “Booster charge?”

“As far as our physicists know, atomic power’s possible if there’s a known way to start it and control it. Earth’s reserves are nearly exhausted. Oil, coal—used up almost completely. And Earth needs power plenty bad, to maintain civilization.”

“The other planets have fuel.”

“Spaceshipping’s too expensive. It’s prohibitive, Paula. Unless a new power source is found very soon, Earthmen may have to migrate to another world—and our civilization’s so complex that that’s nearly impossible. Maybe we can find the answer in Chahnn this time. It was one of the biggest cities of the Ancients.”

“I’ve never seen it,” Captain Brown said.

Benson grunted. “I did, once. Years ago. Tremendous! The scientific achievements they must have had! And nobody knows what happened to the Ancients. They just vanished, and their machines kept running till they’d used up their power—and stopped. So there’s no trace left. We’ve located the fuel chambers, but in every case they’ve been empty. Experiments have been made—unsuccessfully.”

“You still think my translation of the Harro Panel was wrong, eh?” Paula put in.

“I do,” Commander Benson said. “It was a variable cipher. No one else agrees with you that it was a code map.”

“Ever heard of a double code?”

“I’m sorry,” Benson said shortly. “We’ve settled all this. The Black Forest is impassable. We can’t risk our chance of success on a wild goose chase.”

Beside the pilot, Garth’s mouth twisted sardonically. He had an idea, now, what Carver Brown and Paula were after. The secret of the Ancients’ power-source. Well, it might be found in the Black Forest. Anything might. Including the lost race of the Zarno, and. … His eyes went hard. Not yet would he let himself believe Doc Willard was still alive. The most he could hope for was an answer to that question—the tormenting problem of whether or not he had killed Willard.

Lost in his absorption, he snapped out of it scarcely in time as the truck-cat skidded on slick ice.

“Hard left! Sand the treads!” Instinctively his hand flashed to the right lever, releasing a sprinkling of sand that provided traction. He held it down while the pilot fought the wheel. They lurched, swung half around, and found level surface again. Through the window Garth could see a twenty-foot-wide funnel, sloping down to a black hole at the center.

“What was it?” the pilot asked.

“Creethas, the natives call ’em, but that doesn’t mean much. Six-foot insects. Poisonous. They dig traps like antlions on Earth, pits with sloping sides. Once you skid on the ice, you slip on down to the hole at the bottom.”

“Dangerous?”

“Not to us, in here. But we might have damaged the engine.”

“Keep your eyes open after this, Garth,” Commander Benson said sharply.

“Okay.” Garth was silent. The truck-cat drove on, leading the procession.

The vehicles were fast. On level ground they raced, hitting eighty m.p.h. sometimes. By Jupiter-set they had reached Chahnn. Paula, for one, was disappointed.

“I expected a city,” she told Garth as they stared around at the mile-square block of black stone, raised a few feet above ground level, its surface broken by a few structures oddly reminiscent of the subway kiosks of two centuries ago.

“It’s all underground,” Garth said. He was feeling shaky, needing a shot or two of liquor. But there was none. In lieu of it, he borrowed a cigarette from the girl and idled about, watching the men make camp.

The roomy truck-cats provided accommodations for sixty men without crowding. It wasn’t necessary to set up tents. Indeed, in that icy air, only “warmer” tents, heated by induced current in their metallic fabric, would have been feasible. The trucks, however, could be heated easily and were air-conditioned. Garth walked over to a kiosk and peered into the black depths. Chahnn lay below, the gigantic, complicated city of the Ancients.

Through Chahnn was the road to the Black Forest—the only road they could use, under the circumstances.

Garth shivered and went in search of Brown. He was feeling shakier than ever. Vividly in his mind was a picture he did not want to remember—a man stretched on an altar, a knife at his breast. …

He found Brown beside one of the trucks, looking into the darkness.

“Captain—”

“Huh? Oh, Garth. Say, Paula—Miss Trent took a flashlamp and went down into Chahnn to do a bit of exploring. I was thinking of going after her. Any danger down there?”

Garth shook his head. “It’s a dead city. She’ll be okay.”

“Unless she gets lost.”

“She won’t. There are markers pointing to the outlets. How about a drink? I could use one.”

Scowling, Brown nodded and pushed Garth into the truck. “I bunk in here, with the Commander. You’ll have to find a place with the men, somewhere. Oh, by the way—” He pushed folded slips into Garth’s hand. “Here’s the rest of that forty. And here’s a drink.”

Garth gulped brandy better than any he had tasted in years. He didn’t bother with a glass. Brown watched him with an almost imperceptible curl of the lip.

“Thanks. … When do I get that ten thousand?”

“When we’re back here. I don’t trust you quite enough to let you have it now.”

Garth wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, considered, and drank again. “I won’t run out on you. You’re after that Ancients’ power-source, aren’t you?”

Brown’s eyes narrowed a bit. “Any of your business?”

“Not in the way you mean. But I know the Black Forest. I might be able to give you some ideas, if I’m not left too much in the dark. Still, I can guess a little. I know you expect to run into the Zarno.”

“Yeah?”

Garth made an impatient gesture. “Hell, why did you want me as a guide? It wasn’t only because I knew the Forest. I can speak the Ancient Tongue—the same language the Zarno are supposed to use. You’ll want me to palaver with them.”

“Maybe.” Brown went to the back of the truck and found a fresh pack of cigarettes. “We can talk about that later.”

“We ought to talk now. I know what sort of equipment you’ll need in the Forest. If you run out on Benson half-equipped, it’ll be just too bad.”

The door swung open, admitting a blast of frigid air. Commander Benson stepped in, his lips tight and hard, his eyes blazing. Brown, at the end of the chamber, swung around, a sudden, surprised tenseness in his attitude.

“I don’t think you’ll do any running out on me, Captain,” Benson said.

Brown flashed Garth a glance. “Damn you,” he half-whispered. He took a step forward, tigerishly menacing.

Benson pulled a gun from his pocket. “Don’t move,” he said. “Hold it—right there. I thought you’d given up that crazy idea you and Paula had, but apparently—” He shrugged. “Well, I’ll have to put you and the girl under guard. No one in this outfit’s heading for the Black Forest if I can help it.”

Brown’s hand hovered in midair.

“Don’t try it,” Benson said. “Keep your gun where it belongs. The sound of a shot wouldn’t help you any.” He stepped back, his mouth opening in a shout that would summon others.

Brown, at the other end of the truck, could not have reached him in time, but the Commander had forgotten or ignored Garth. That was a mistake. Garth was only a few feet from Benson, and he galvanized into unexpected action. He sprang, one hand clamping over the gun, the other, clenched, driving in a hard, short jab at Benson’s chin.

There was strength in that punch, and it connected at the right point. Had Garth not been gripping the Commander’s hand, the latter would have gone backward, out of the truck.

“Knockout!” Brown said tonelessly. He was suddenly beside Garth, yanking Benson forward. “Shut the door. Quick.”

Garth obeyed. Turning, he saw the Captain kneeling beside Benson’s motionless form. After a moment Brown looked up.

“He’ll come out of it soon. Maybe too soon. Get me those straps from the corner.”

Garth did that, and then had another drink. He felt lousy. He watched Brown bind the Commander and thrust the lax figure out of sight, under a bunk.

“That does it,” Brown said, rising. “We’re in the soup now. But—it was lucky you hit him when you did.”

“What now?”

“We start for the Black Forest before Benson wakes up. I’m second in command. I’ll get my own men, and we’ll jump the gun.” Brown’s eyes were excited.

“Equipment?”

“We’ll take what we can. Weapons, mostly. Stay with me.”

They went out of the truck into the soft light of four moons, two large, two tiny. Fourfold shadows paced them over the icy slick. Garth hurried off to find his medical kit. By the time he returned, Brown had mustered his men and was waiting. He gave Garth a brief glance.

“Okay. Morgan—” He turned to a giant in uniform. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. As soon as we find Miss Trent. Bye.”

“Bye, sir.”

Garth led the way into one of the kiosks. Lamps were flashed on. A spiral ramp led steeply down.

In an undertone Brown said, “I told Morgan Commander Benson sent me to find Paula Trent—that she was lost in the city. So we’re safe till—”

“We’re safe till we leave the underground passage,” Garth said. “After that, twenty miles across open ground. Has Benson got planes?”

“Portable ones, yeah.”

“Then we’d better do that twenty miles at night.”

The ramp ended. Before them was a gigantic room where their tiny lamps were lost. Here and there enigmatic shadows loomed, the dead, fantastic machines of the Ancients that had once made Chahnn alive and powerful.

Garth went directly to an opening in the wall, Brown and his ten men following, and entered a short tunnel. At one spot he paused, ran his finger over a panel of smooth metal, and pressed. A black oval opened silently.

“Here’s the way. They won’t follow us beyond this point.”

Brown nodded. “Sampson, get the men inside. Wait here for me. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

A burly, beak-nosed fellow with a cast in one eye and flaming red hair saluted casually. “Right. Come on, boys. Hop through. Mind your packs.”

Garth stared at Brown. “What d’you mean? Where—”

The Captain said, “We’re taking Paula Trent with us.”

“No! It’s nearly suicide for us—she couldn’t make it at all.”

“She’s tougher than you think. Besides, she’s got the map. And she’s an archaeologist. I can’t read the Ancients’ lingo. Can you?”

Garth shook his head. “I can speak it, that’s all. But—”

“If we find what we’re after, we’ll need Paula Trent. She’s down here somewhere. Let’s go find her.”

“I tell you—”

Brown brought out a gun and leveled it.

“Find her. Or I’ll find her myself, and we’ll head for the Black Forest without you. Because you’ll be dead. I haven’t come this far to let you stop me. And chivalry looks a bit funny on a guy like you.”

Sudden murder-light flared in the pale eyes.

“Find her!” Brown whispered. “And—fast!”

III

Garth knuckled under. There was nothing else to do. He knew Brown wouldn’t hesitate to kill him, and, after all, what the devil did Paula Trent mean to him? Her life was unimportant, compared to the hopeless quest that had quickened in his mind, despite himself.

For Doc Willard might still be alive. Even if he wasn’t, there was that notebook the Doc had always carried around with him—a book that contained the medico’s theories about the Silver Plague. Even if that ghastly dreamlike memory were not merely delirium—even if Garth, witless and unknowing, had killed Willard—there was always that dim, desperate chance that the cure for the Plague might be found in the Black Forest.

So—damn Paula Trent! She didn’t matter, when the lives of millions might depend on Garth’s penetrating the jungle that had baffled him for five years.

Without a word he turned and started back, Brown keeping close beside him. The huge chamber loomed before them, filled with its cryptic shadows. There was time now to see what they had missed in their quick flight a few moments ago—though not much time, for pursuit might start at any minute.

Dead silence, and darkness, broken by the crossing beams of the brilliant lamps. Garth listened.

“Hear anything?”

Brown shook his head.

“Nothing.”

“Okay. We’ll try this way.”

Then went into a passage that sloped down, ending in a vaulted room larger than the first. Brown swung up his gun abruptly as a figure seemed to leap from blackness in the ray of the lamp. Garth caught his arm.

“Robot. Unpowered. They’re all over the city.”

The robots—slaves of the Ancients, Garth thought, who had died with them, lacking the fuel that could quicken them to life. No Earthly scientists had ever been able to analyze the construction of the machines, for they were built of an alloy that was apparently indestructible. Acid and flame made no impression on the smooth, glittering black surface.

This one, like all the others, was roughly man-shaped, nearly eight feet tall, and with four arms, the hands extended into limber jointed fingers almost like tentacles. From the mask-like face complex glassy eyes stared blankly. It stood motionless, guarding a world that no longer needed guardians.

With a little shrug Garth went on, his ears alert for sounds. From the walls bizarre figures in muraled panels watched. Those murals showed a world of incredibly advanced science, Garth knew. He had seen them before. He spared them not a glance now.

The machines—

What were they? They loomed like dinosaurs in the endless chain of high-domed vaults. They had once given Chahnn power and life and strength. The murals showed that. The Ancient Race had used antigravity—a secret unknown to Earthmen—and they had created food by the rearrangement of atomic patterns, not even requiring hydroponic tank cultures. They had ruled this world like gods.

And they had passed with no trace, leaving only these silent monuments to their greatness. With the power of the Ancients, Earth’s lack of fuel-reserves would not matter. If the secret of atomic power could be found again, these machines would roar into thundering life—and machines like them would rise on Earth.

Power and greatness such as civilization had never known! Power even to reach the stars!

And—Garth thought wryly—a power that would be useless unless a cure for the Silver Plague could be found.

He was almost running now, his footsteps and Brown’s echoing hollowly in the great rooms. Silently he cursed Paula Trent. There were other levels below, many of them, and she might be down there—which would make the task almost impossible.

A distant flicker of light jerked Garth to a halt. He switched off his lamp, motioning for Brown to do the same.

It came again, far away, a firefly glimpse.

“Paula?” the Captain said.

“Guess so. Unless they’re after us already.”

“Take it easy, then.”

They went on, running lightly on their toes. The light had vanished, but Garth knew the way. Suddenly they came out of a short tunnel into one of the great rooms, and relief flooded Garth as he saw Paula’s face, pale in reflected light, a dozen feet away.

Simultaneously a faint sound came rhythmically—like dim drums.

Garth said sharply, “Hear that? Men coming down a ramp. Get the girl and let’s go!”

But Paula was already coming toward them, blinking in the glare. “Who’s that? Carver? I—”

Brown gripped her arm. “There’s no time to talk now, Paula. We’re in a jam. Keep your mouth shut and come along. Garth, can you get us back to that secret passage?”

“Maybe. It’ll be blind luck if we make it. Turn your lamps out and link hands. Here.” He felt Paula’s firm, warm palm hard against his, and remembrance of Moira was suddenly unexpectedly painful. He had not seen an Earthgirl for years. …

What of it, now? Garth moved cat-footedly forward, leading the others. He went fast. Once or twice he clicked on his light briefly. They could hear the noise of the search-party now, and a few times, could see distant lights.

“If they find that open panel—” Brown whispered.

“Keep quiet.”

Garth pressed them back into an alcove as footsteps grew louder. Luck stayed with them. The searchers turned off at another passage. After that—

It was like a nightmare, a blind, stumbling race through the blackness of Chahnn, with menace hiding everywhere. Garth’s hand was slippery with perspiration against Paula’s by the time he stopped, his light clicking on and off again almost instantly.

“This is it,” he said. “The panel’s shut.”

“Good. Sampson must have had sense enough to close it. Unless—”

Garth found the spring and pressed it. He flashed his light into the darkness, to see the familiar faces of Brown’s men staring at him. The Captain thrust him forward. Paula was instantly beside him, and then Brown himself was through the oval gap.

“They’re coming,” he murmured. “How in hell does this work?”

“Here.” Garth didn’t use his light. Under his deft fingers the panel slid back into place, shutting off the noise of approaching steps. He gasped a little with relief.

“Okay,” he said in a natural voice. “These walls are soundproof. We can use our lights. We’ll have to.”

“What happened?” Paula’s voice said. “You said we were in a jam, Carver. Well?”

“We’ll talk as we go. Garth, you first. Paula, stay with me. Sampson, bring up the rear, will you?”

Garth obediently set out down the sloping tunnel, scarcely listening to Brown’s explanation. There were side branches to the passage here and there. He had to use his memory, which seemed less accurate than he remembered. Once he almost blundered, but caught himself in time.

Brown said, “Garth, we’ve got thirty miles of tunnel and twenty more above ground till we hit the Forest. Right? This is rough going. We won’t get out of here till daylight. So we’d better camp in the passage, at the other end, till tomorrow night.”

“We don’t have to do that,” Garth grunted. “This isn’t Earth. Jupiter won’t rise for thirteen hours.”

“The men have heavy packs.” Brown shifted his own big one uncomfortably. “Fifty miles is quite a way. Still, the quicker we reach the Forest, the safer we’ll be.”

“There’s a river.” Garth’s voice was doubtful. “We might use that.”

“Would it help?”

“Yeah. But it’s dangerous.”

“Why?”

“Spouts. Geysers. The water’s apt to explode under you any time. And there are big lizards—”

“Would it take long to make a raft?”

Garth shook his head. “Lata-trees are better than balsa, and they grow on the banks. Plenty of vines, too. But—”

“We’ll do that, then,” Brown said decisively. “Speed it up. We’ve got thirteen hours. We can make it, all right.”

Garth didn’t answer.

After that it was pure monotony, a dull driving march through a bare tunnel, up slopes and down them, till leg muscles were aching with fatigue. Garth dropped into a state of tired apathy. He had no pack to carry, but nevertheless his liquor-soaked body rebelled at the unaccustomed exertion. But he knew that each step brought him closer to his goal.

The thoughts swung monotonously through his brain. Doc Willard. The notebook. The cure. The Plague. Maybe—maybe—maybe!

If he got through—if he found the notebook—if it had the cure—that was what he wanted, of course.

But suppose he also found the skeleton of Doc Willard on an altar, with a knife-hilt protruding from the ribs?

He couldn’t have killed Doc consciously. That was unthinkable. Yet the damnable influence of the Noctoli pollen did odd things to a man’s mind.

Doc Willard—Moira—the Silver Plague—

Half asleep, aching with exhaustion, he slogged ahead, moving like an automaton. And, whenever he slowed his pace, Brown’s sharp voice urged him on faster.

Grudgingly the Captain allowed them rest periods. But by the time they reached the tunnel’s end the men were panting and sweating, and both Paula and Garth were near exhaustion. Thirty miles at a fast pace, with only occasional rests, is wearing work.

They emerged from the passage to find themselves on the slope of a rocky hillock. Low ridges rose around them, silhouetted in triple-moonlight. A whitish haze hung close to the ground, filling the hollows like shining water.

Instinctively Brown looked up. A meteor, drawn by the immense gravity of Jupiter, flamed across the sky—that was all. And that was a familiar enough sight.

Garth, reeling with fatigue, nodded. “River—down there. Half a mile. The fog’s thicker—”

“Okay. Let’s go.”

This lap of the journey was nearly the hardest. But the low roar of the river steadily grew louder as they stumbled on, the luminous mist lapping their ankles, their knees, their waists. It closed above their heads, so that they moved in a ghostlike, shadowless world in which the very air seemed dimly lighted.

Trees were visible. Garth, almost spent, searched for a shelving beach, found it, and dropped in a limp heap. He saw Paula sink down beside him. The men threw off their heavy packs with relief.

Brown—the man was made of rawhide and steel!—said, “I’ll need help to make a raft. The boys that feel tired can keep their eyes open for pursuit planes. I don’t think the Commander would send out truck-cats at night, but he’ll use searching planes.”

“They can’t see us in this fog,” Paula said faintly.

“They could hear us, with their motors muffled. So we’ll work fast. Garth!”

“Yeah. What?”

“What trees do we want?”

Garth pointed. “Lata. Like that one, over there. They’re easy to cut down, and they float. You’ll find tough vines all around here.” He forced the words out with an effort. Brown mustered eight of his men, including the red-haired Sampson, and led them away. The sound of ringing axes presently drifted back.

Two others had been stationed on hillocks, above the low-lying fog, to watch for planes. Garth, alone with Paula, was almost too tired to be conscious of her presence. He heard her voice.

“Cigarette?”

“Thanks. …” Garth took one.

“Sorry I can’t offer you a drink.”

“So am I,” Garth grunted. He could feel her eyes on him. He drew the smoke deep into his lungs, exhaling luxuriously.

“Got a gun?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Oh—things come out of the river sometimes. Hunting water-lizards, carnivorous. You learn to sleep with one eye open on Ganymede.”

“It’s a funny world,” Paula acknowledged. “Once it was highly civilized. Now it’s gone back to savagery.”

“Conditions are bad here. Too vigorous. Jupiter gives light but not much heat. Animals and plants have to be tough to survive. This is summer-season, but it’s plenty cold.”

“How much do you know about the Zarno?” she asked abruptly.

Garth blinked. “Not much. Why?”

“Not many people have ever seen them. I’m wondering. I managed to translate some inscriptions from Chahnn. … The Zarno aren’t human, are they?”

Garth didn’t answer. Paula went on.

“The Ancients knew them, though. They tried to educate them—like Rome colonizing savage races. That’s probably why the Zarno are supposed to speak the Ancient Tongue.”

“They do.”

“And then the Ancients died out—somehow. The Zarno were left. They became barbarous again. I wish I knew what they were like. Natives who’ve seen them don’t seem able to describe the creatures. They wear shining armor, don’t they?”

Garth closed his eyes, trying to remember. A vague, dim picture was growing in his mind—manlike figures that glowed, faces that were craggy, hideous creatures. …

“I’ve seen them,” he said, “but I’ve forgotten. The Noctoli poison—it wrecked my memory.”

“You don’t recall anything?”

“I—” Garth rubbed his forehead. “Not human—no. Creatures like living statues, shining and moving. … I don’t know.”

“Silicate life?” Paula theorized thoughtfully. “It’s possible. And it might evolve on a planet where conditions are so tough for survival. Such creatures wouldn’t be affected by the Noctoli pollen, either, would they?”

“No. Or they’ve built up resistance. The virus is active only in daylight, when the flowers are open. I don’t know why. Before we go too far into the Black Forest I’ll have to give everyone antitoxin shots—everyone but me. The pollen doesn’t work on me any more.”

They were silent, resting. It seemed only a moment before Brown appeared, announcing that the raft was ready.

“It’s a makeshift job, but it’s strong,” he said. “Listen, Garth, what about the planes spotting us on the river? We’ll be an easy target.”

“They wouldn’t fire on us?”

“No. But they’d use sleep-gas, and nab us when we drifted ashore. We don’t want that.”

Garth rose, his muscles aching. “It’s a chance. Most of the time there’ll be fog on the river. That’ll help.” He found his medical kit and shouldered it. “I’m ready.”

The men were already on the raft, a big platform of light, tough lata-logs bound together by vines. Garth took his place near the pile of equipment in the center. “Keep to midstream,” he cautioned. “Watch for bubbles breaking ahead. Swing wide of those. Waterspouts.”

The raft slid out from the bank, long poles guiding it. Water washed aboard and slipped away as the platform found its balance. Presently they were drifting downstream in the dimly-lighted fog, the black river murmuring quietly beneath them.

Garth kept his gaze ahead. It was hard to see in the faint, filtered light of the moons, but a ray-lamp would have been betraying to any planes that might be searching above.

“Swing left. Hard,” he called.

The men obeyed. Oily bubbles were breaking the surface. As the raft moved toward the bank, a sudden geyser burst up from the river, a spouting torrent that tipped the platform dangerously and showered its occupants with icy spray.

Garth met Brown’s eyes. “See what I mean?” he remarked.

“Yeah. Still, if that’s all—”

The river flowed fast. Once or twice the plated back of a giant saurian was visible, but the water-reptiles did not attack, made wary, perhaps, by the bulk of the raft. There were other waterspouts, but the men soon became adept at avoiding them.

Sometimes they drifted through fog, sometimes the mists were dissipated by winds, though not often. During one of the latter periods a faint droning drifted down from above. It was the worst possible timing, for the two larger moons were directly overhead, blazing down on the river. The stub-winged shape of a plane loomed against the starry sky.

Brown said sharply, “Drop flat. Don’t move.” He forced Garth and Paula down. “No, don’t look up. They’d see our faces.”

“They can’t miss us,” Sampson muttered.

“There’s fog ahead.”

The sound of the plane’s motors grew louder. Abruptly there was a splash. Another. Something shattered on the raft.

“Hold your breath!” Brown snapped.

Garth tried to obey. A stinging ache had crept into his nostrils. His lungs began to hurt. The plane had spotted them—that was obvious. Sleep-gas works fast.

Another soft crash. Garth scarcely heard it. He saw a stubby, cruciform shadow sweep over the raft, as the plane swooped, and then the wall of silvery fog was looming up ahead. Paula gave a little gasp. Her body collapsed against him.

The fire in Garth’s chest was blazing agony. Despite himself, he let breath rush into his lungs.

After that, complete blackness and oblivion.

IV

Garth woke in reddish, dim twilight. Instantly he knew where he was, even before he sat up and saw the black boles of immense trees rising like pillars around him. The Forest!

“About time,” Captain Brown’s toneless voice said. “That sleep-gas put you under for hours.”

Garth rose, glancing around. They were camped in a little clearing among the gigantic trees, and some of the men were heating their rations over radiolite stove-kits. From above, the crimson light filtered vaguely from a leafy roof incredibly far. The trees of the Black Forest were taller than California sequoias, and Jupiter-light reached the ground faintly, through the ceiling of red leaves that roofed the jungle. Paula, Garth saw, was lying with her eyes closed not far away.

“She all right?”

“Sure,” Brown said. “Resting is all. We got away from Benson’s plane—hit that fog-bank just in time. You’d passed out, so I took a chance and kept going. After we reached the Forest, I landed the raft and headed inland a bit. So here we are.”

Garth nodded. “That was wise. The river goes underground a half mile further. Any—accidents?”

Brown looked at him oddly. “This might be Yosemite, for all the danger I’ve seen so far. It’s a picnic.”

“That,” Garth said, “is just why it’s so bad. You don’t see the trouble till after it’s happened.” He didn’t explain. “Where’s my kit?”

“Here. Why?”

“Before we go any further, we’ll need shots. Antitoxin against the Noctoli pollen. The flowers don’t grow on the edges of the Forest, but the wind carries their poison quite a ways sometimes.” Garth rummaged in his kit, found sealed vials and a hypo, and carefully sterilized everything over a radiolite stove he commandeered from one of the men. After that, he administered the antivirus, first to Paula and last of all to Brown. He took none himself; he had acquired a natural immunity to the pollen.

There was barely enough to go around. Brown’s shot was slightly less than the regular dosage, which vaguely worried Garth. But the Captain, annoyed by the delay, was anxious to talk about immediate plans.

“Benson might land at the edge of the Forest and come after us a mile or so. Not further. But we’d better start moving.” He led Garth over to where Paula sat. “It’s time for you to see the map.”

The girl nodded in agreement. She took out a folded flex-paper and extended it. Garth squinted down in the red twilight.

“Map?”

“More like a treasure hunt,” Paula explained. “There’s a series of guide-points, you see. So far we’re okay—narva means west, in the Ancient Tongue, doesn’t it?”

“Narva.” Garth gave the word a slightly different pronunciation. “Yeah. Well—three sallags northwest to the Mouths of the Waters Below—”

“Mouths of the Singing Below, I made it.”

Garth shook his head. “I can’t read the stuff. I just know the spoken language. Read the whole thing out loud, so I can get it.”

Paula obeyed. Her pronunciation made some words unfamiliar to Garth, but by experiment he found what was meant.

“Uh-huh. A sallag is less than three miles, as far as I can judge. I think I know the place. It’s a hill honeycombed with little caves. You can hear water running underneath it.”

“That fits,” the girl agreed. “This won’t be so hard, after all.”

Garth grunted. He turned to Brown.

“I want a gun. And a knife. I’ll need both.”

“Sampson!”

The red-haired man approached, squinting. “Yeah?”

“Rustle up a knife and gun for Garth.”

“Check.”

Paula was staring at Garth. “You expect trouble, don’t you?”

“I do.”

She made a gesture. “This all seems so peaceful—”

“Listen,” Garth said, “the Black Forest is the worst deathtrap in the System. Here’s why. The struggle for existence is plenty tough here. Brute strength isn’t enough, nor agility. A tiger or a deer wouldn’t last long here. In the Forest, the survival of the fittest means the plant or animal that can get the most food. That sort of thing has been going on here for a million years. The beasts developed super-quick reactions. They could smell danger a mile away. So they had to have strength, agility, and something else—to get close to their prey.”

Brown stared. “What?”

“Invisibility. Or its equivalent. Ever heard of protective coloration? Camouflage? Well, the creatures of the Forest are the most perfect camouflage experts that exist. They don’t simply trick your eyes, either. They trick the other senses. If you smell perfume, take it easy, or you’ll find yourself asleep, while your head’s being chewed off by a lizard that looks as nasty as it smells good. If you see a path and it feels solid, don’t walk too far on it. Things have made that path. A carnivorous moss that feels exactly like smooth dirt underfoot—till their digestive juices start working. If you hear me yelling your name, take it easy. There are birds like harpies here that imitate sounds the way parrots do.”

Garth’s grin was tight. “You’ll find out. It’s camouflage carried to the last degree, for offense and defense. I know the Forest pretty well; you don’t. You haven’t developed a sort of sixth sense—an instinct—that tells you when something smells bad, even though it looks like a six-course dinner.”

“All right,” the Captain said. “This is your territory, not mine. It’s up to you.”

It was, Garth decided later as he led the way through the black columns of the trees, very much up to him. Brown and the others were tough, hard fighters, but they didn’t know the subtleties of this hellhole, where death lurked everywhere disguised. He had got a drink from Sampson and his nerves were less jagged, but physical exhaustion still gripped him. He’d been on the skids for a long time, and was in rotten bad shape. But if the girl could stand it, he could.

It was warmer in the Forest; the trees seemed to exhale heat and moisture, and there was no snow on the ground. Great ebony pillars of giant trees, rising hundreds of feet into the air, made the place a labyrinth. And the deceptive reddish twilight made walking difficult, even to Garth’s trained senses.

There was trouble, though. When a gorgeously-colored butterfly, flame-red and green, fluttered down toward Paula, Garth hastily slapped at the insect with a thick leaf he was carrying. “Watch out for those,” he told the girl, nodding toward the crushed body. “They’re poisonous. Bad medicine.”

And once, as Brown was about to seat himself on a rounded grayish boulder, Garth whirled the man away just in time. A hole in the rock gaped open, and a pair of fanged mandibles snapped out, clicking together viciously. Garth put a bullet in the thing. It heaved itself up on spidery legs, revealing that the “rock” was a carapace covering an insect-like body. And it took a long time to die.

There were other, similar incidents. They had a bad effect on the men, even Sampson. The crew Brown had picked was tough, but the Black Forest was like distilled poison. It was easier to face a charging rhino than to travel through this ebony jungle where silent, secret death lurked concealed, in a diabolic masquerade.

That was the first day. The second was worse. The trees were thicker, and sometimes it was necessary to use machete-blades to hew through the tangled undergrowth.

Another day—and another—and another, following the clues on Paula’s cipher map. They found the first guidepost, the hill honeycombed with caves, and from there went on to the east, camping at the edge of a ravine that dropped away into unplumbed darkness.

Camouflage-moss grew here, looking deceptively like solid ground. One of the men ventured too close to the edge of the cleft, and the moss crumbled beneath him, dropping him into a nest of the roots—twining, writhing cannibalistic serpents with sucker-disks that drank blood thirstily.

They got him out in time, luckily. But the men’s nerves were jolted.

After that, day after day, constant alertness was vital. The party walked with guns and knives in their hands. Their footsteps rang hollow in the dead, empty silence of the Forest. …

It was only Garth’s knowledge of the dark wilderness that got them through to the interior. After a week, he was further in than he had ever penetrated before, except when he had crashed the aircar with Doc Willard five years ago.

But they were getting closer—nearer! More and more often Garth remembered the black notebook that might hold the cure for the Silver Plague. For some indefinable reason he had come to feel that Paula’s goal was also his.

It was logical enough. They were searching for a lost treasure-house of the Ancient Race, guarded, perhaps, by the Zarno. And Garth was certain that, during that period of partial amnesia, he and Willard had been captives of the Zarno. He had been drugged with the Noctoli poison by day, but at night he had wakened in a bare cell with his friend—a cell with walls of metal, he recalled. It had been windowless. Lighted by a faint glow from one corner.

It checked. A ruin, once built by the Ancients, now inhabited by the Zarno.

If he could find that notebook—

He always stopped there. He knew what he might also discover—the skeleton of Willard, stretched on an altar. That picture always made his stomach go cold and tight.

That night Brown complained of a splitting headache. They camped near a stream, and Garth accompanied the Captain down to the bank, with canvas pails. Jupiter was invisible—they had not seen the sky for a week—but the red light was fading.

“Not too close,” Garth cautioned. “Let me test it first.”

Brown stared at him. “What now? I’m getting to expect anything here.” The man’s expressionless face showed signs of strain and exhaustion. He had no nerves, apparently, but the gruelling journey had told on him nevertheless.

Garth used his knife to cut down a sapling. He impaled a leaf on its point and extended it gingerly over the dark water. After a moment he felt a shock like a striking fish, and the pole was nearly wrenched from his hands. And he wrestled with it, Brown’s hands gripped the sapling.

“What the devil! Garth—”

“Let it go. I was only testing, anyway.” The pole was dragged into the water, where it thrashed about violently for a few moments.

“What is it?”

Garth was searching through the underbrush for something. “Water-snakes. Big ones—perfectly transparent. They wait for some animal to come along and take a drink. Then—bang!” He nodded. “Here we are. We’ll find a lot of the Noctoli flowers from now on.”

He brought out a bloom nearly a foot in diameter, with leaves of pulpy, glossy black, a thick powdering of silver in its cup. “This is Noctoli, Captain. Looks harmless, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Brown rubbed his forehead. “The pollen gives you amnesia?”

“In the daytime, when it’s active. It’s phototropic—needs light. Jupiter can’t have set yet, so this ought to work.” Garth found another pole, speared the flower on its tip, and extended the blossom over the water. He shook the silver dust into the stream.

“It works fast. The snakes will be paralyzed in a few seconds. The current carries off the pollen, we dip up the water we need—and that’s that.”

Paula appeared through the bushes, glancing around warily. In the last week everyone had learned to be alert always. Lines of fatigue showed on her pale face. Red-gold hair was plastered damply on her forehead.

“Carver—”

“What’s up?”

She glanced at Garth, “The men. Sampson’s talking to them.”

Brown’s rattrap mouth clamped tight. “That so? Sampson shoots off his mouth too much. What’s the angle?”

“I think they want to go back.”

Garth, dipping up water in the canvas buckets, said, “We’ve only three more days to go, unless we run into bad country.”

“I know. But—they’re armed.”

“I’ll talk to ’em,” Brown said quietly. He lifted two of the pails and started up the path, Paula and Brown trailing him. Presently they reached the clearing where camp had been made.

The men weren’t cooking. Instead, they were gathered in a knot around Sampson, whose blazing red hair stood up like a beacon. Brown put down his burden and walked toward them.

They broke up at sight of him, but didn’t scatter. Sampson’s hand crept imperceptibly toward his holster.

“Trouble?” Brown asked.

Sampson squinted at him. “No trouble. Except we didn’t know the Forest would be as bad as it is.”

“So you want to go back?”

“You can’t blame us for that,” Sampson said, hunching his heavy shoulders. “It’s only dumb luck that’s kept us alive so far. We didn’t bargain for this, Captain.”

“I told you what to expect.”

“All you said was that it’d be dangerous. None of us knew the Forest. Those damn bloodsucker plants are the worst. They reach out at a guy everywhere he turns. And the other things—we can’t get through, Captain! You ought to be able to see that yourself!”

“Nobody’s been killed so far.”

“Blind luck. And Garth, too. He knows this country. If we didn’t have him, we wouldn’t have lasted a day.”

“We’ve got him,” Brown said crisply. “So we’re going on. Only three more days, anyhow. That’s enough. Start cooking your rations.” He turned his back on Sampson and walked away. The red-haired giant hesitated, scowling. Finally he shrugged and glanced around at the others.

That broke the tension. One by one the men scattered to prepare food.

Only Garth was gnawed by a persistent, deep-rooted fear. He didn’t admit it, even to himself. But he watched Brown closely that night, and finally unpacked his medical kit and carefully searched it for something he knew wasn’t there.

He was dreading the next morning.

V

Slow reddish dawn brightened over the Forest. Garth felt someone shaking him. He grunted, stirred, and opened his eyes to see Paula’s white face, and, behind her, Sampson.

“Yeah. What’s wrong?” He scrambled out of his blankets, blinking. The girl, pale to the lips, pointed toward a recumbent figure.

“Carver. Captain Brown. He’s—I don’t know!”

Sampson said gruffly, “Looks like he’s dead. The men on guard duty said he didn’t move once all night.”

Icy bands constricted suddenly around Garth’s heart. Without answering he got his kit and went over to examine Brown. The man lay motionless, his breathing normal, but a deep flush on his brown cheeks.

“It isn’t the Plague, is it?” Sampson asked, his voice not quite under control.

Garth shook his head. “Hell, no! It’s—” He hesitated.

Paula caught his arm. “What? Some insect poisoned him—one of those butterfly-things?”

Garth carefully repacked his kit. He didn’t look up.

“He’s got a dose of the Noctoli pollen. That’s all. It’s not fatal. He’ll come out of it after he leaves the Forest, or after he builds up immunity.”

“How long would that take?”

“A month or more.”

Garth bent over the apparently sleeping man. “Get up, Brown,” he said insistently. “Hear me? Get up?”

The Captain stirred. His eyes opened, blank and unseeing. He drew himself from his blankets and rose, looking straight ahead. Paula shrank back with a little gasp. There was a flurry of movement among the men in the background.

“He’ll be all right tonight. The poison only works in the daytime—I’ve told you that.”

“We can’t march at night,” Paula said. “Not—here!”

“I know. It’s impossible. Our lights would attract the butterflies—and plenty of other things.”

Sampson whirled on the others. “Pack your equipment! We’re getting out of here, fast!”

They hurried to obey. Paula got in front of Sampson as he turned, and the giant stopped, blinking at her.

“You can’t leave the Captain here, Sampson.”

“We’ll carry him, then. But we’re getting out.”

Garth moved to Paula’s side. “You won’t need a litter. He can walk. Noctoli poison works like hypnotism. You’re semiconscious, but your will’s in abeyance. If anyone tells Brown to follow us, he’ll do it.”

Paula was biting her lip. “We can’t go back now. We’ve only three days to go.”

“Look,” Sampson said grimly, “why in hell should we commit suicide? Suppose we head on for three days. We reach this lost city of yours, or whatever it is. What then? We’re in the middle of the Black Forest. Another thirteen days to get out! It’s too much of a gamble. We’re leaving now, and you can come along or stay here—suit yourself!” He turned away.

Left alone, Paula looked helplessly from the motionless, staring figure of Brown to Garth.

“Carver!”

He didn’t move. Garth grinned wryly.

“He’ll obey commands, that’s all. He won’t wake up till tonight.”

Paula clenched her hands. “We’ve got to go on! We’ve got to! If we go back now—”

“Commander Benson will clap us in the brig, eh?”

She looked at him angrily. “It isn’t only that. We’d lose our chance. You were right, Garth—we’re after the power-source of the Ancients. The secret’s hidden here, in the Black Forest. That cipher from Chahnn proved that—to me, anyway. Earth needs power, more than you can imagine. Without it, civilization will collapse—soon, too.”

“Suppose we go on,” Garth said slowly. “I didn’t tell you this, but the reason the poison hit Brown was because my antitoxin was too old. He had a short dose, too. The other men—well, they’ll go under themselves in a day or so. You, too.”

Blue smudges showed under the girl’s eyes. “Oh,” she said after a moment. “So it’s like that.”

“Just like that.”

Paula’s stubborn chin tilted up. “I don’t care—there’s still a way. We’ll be all right at night, you said. Well, we’ll do our traveling and fighting by night.”

“Fighting?”

“The Zarno. Garth, we’ve got to do it, somehow. Once we find that power-source, we can use it! There’ll be weapons the Ancients left, I’m sure of it. The murals at Chahnn showed they had weapons, strong enough to conquer the Zarno. If we can get those—”

“You’re crazy,” Garth said. “Plain crazy. What the hell do you expect me to do about it? Sampson would knock my block off if I tried to stop him now.”

But he was thinking: we’re losing more than a chance to find the Ancient’s power-source. I’m losing my chance to find the cure for the Silver Plague.

“No,” he said stubbornly.

Paula’s lip curled. “I should have known better than to ask you for help. I’ll handle this myself.” She unholstered her gun.

Garth looked at her. She’d fail. She couldn’t handle these ten hard-shelled fighters, headed by Sampson. She’d fail. And, in the end, she’d go back to Earth, in the brig, back to the certain death of the Silver Plague. Oh, it might miss her, of course. But it might not.

Paula would die as Moira had done, years ago.

Garth shrugged and slapped the girl’s weapon down. “Stay out of this,” he commanded, and turned away, walking across the clearing to where Sampson and the others were shouldering their kits.

The red-haired giant looked up at Garth’s approach. “Step it up,” he said. “We’re in a hurry.”

“I’m not going.”

Sampson’s furry brows drew together. “The hell you’re not. We need you!”

There was a band of ice around Garth’s middle. “I know that. You can’t get through without me. You’ll never get out of the Forest alive. That’s tough. Paula and I are going ahead, with Captain Brown. We’re finishing what we started.”

“You lousy so-and-so!” Sampson roared. His big hand reached out, clutching. Garth stepped back, drawing his pistol.

“Take it easy,” he said under his breath. But there was a gun in Sampson’s hand now. Behind the giant, the other men stirred angrily.

“You’re coming with us!”

“Not alive. I won’t be much good to you dead, will I?”

After a moment Sampson re-holstered his gun. He looked around at the others.

Someone said, “We can get along without that son.”

Sampson growled at him. “Shut up. We can’t. You’d have been sucked dry by that spider-thing yesterday if Garth hadn’t seen it in time. He knows where to walk in this hellhole.”

Garth didn’t say anything. He waited, holding his gun with casual lightness.

Sampson glared. “What do you want, then?”

“I want you to keep going—finish what you started.”

“Then what?”

“We may find weapons—and other things.”

“Suppose we don’t?”

“Then we’ll come back. I got you in here, and I’m the only man on Ganymede who can get you out.”

Sampson’s eyes narrowed. “Suppose we say yes. You can’t keep a gun on us all the time. We might jump you. There are ways of making a man do things he doesn’t want to do.”

“Sure,” Garth admitted, “you could torture me. Only that wouldn’t help.”

Sampson’s gaze flicked past to the girl. Garth said quickly, “That wouldn’t help either. Here’s why. The antitoxin I gave you was too old. It isn’t working the way it ought. Captain Brown was the first man to go under. But within three days, at the latest, every damn one of you will have Noctoli poison!”

Garth thought Sampson was going to shoot him then and there. A yell went up from the men.

Sampson’s lifted hand quieted them. The giant was pale under his spaceburn.

“Is that straight?”

Garth nodded. “It’s on the beam. Yeah. It’ll take you a week to get out of the Forest, and you won’t last that long, even if you force me to guide you. I don’t think you can do that, anyway. But even if you did—within three days you’ll be like the Captain. Walking dead men! You’ll be okay at night, but you can’t travel at night. By day you’ll be living statues, sitting in the Forest waiting for the bloodsucker plants to come along and drain your blood, waiting for the poisonous butterflies to paralyze you and lay their eggs under your skin, waiting—you’ve seen what sort of things live in the Forest. Every day you’ll be helpless. You can’t run. Some night you’ll wake up with your legs chewed off, or the butterfly maggots eating you alive. Like that? Well, that’s what you’ll get—and I’m the only guy that can save you!”

The faces of the men told Garth that his shots had gone home. The deadly menace of the forest, lurking always in the background, had worked into their nerves. Sampson’s big hands clenched.

“Damn you!” he snarled. “You can’t—”

Garth went on quickly. “I’m handing this to you straight. We’re in a spot, sure, but we can get out of it. I can make more antitoxin, but it’ll take a while. I can’t do it while we’re traveling. I need equipment. Here’s what I’m proposing—we all keep going, the way we started. I’m immune to the pollen. If we move fast, we’ll reach the lost city, or whatever it is, before you go under. Then I can start making antitoxin. We’ll have to trap some small animals and allow time for incubation. But I’ll be able to make fresh shots and neutralize the Noctoli pollen.”

“It’s too long a shot,” Sampson said.

“Okay,” Garth told him. “Suit yourself. Play it my way, or commit suicide.” He turned and walked toward Paula, who had not moved from Brown’s side.

Her eyes were steady on his. “Thanks. That was nice going—plenty nice, if you pull it off.”

“It’s suicide either way,” Garth grunted. He began packing Brown’s kit and his own.

Footsteps sounded. Garth didn’t turn. He heard Sampson’s deep voice, hoarse with repressed fear and rage.

“We’re playing it your way, Garth. God help you if you make any boners!”

Sudden relief weakened Garth. He tried not to show it, though he realized that his hands were trembling.

“Fair enough,” he said. “We’ll march in ten minutes. Get the men ready.”

Sampson muttered something and retreated. Garth slipped the pack on Brown’s shoulders. The Captain, looking blankly ahead, didn’t seem to notice.

“Keep your eye on him,” Garth told Paula. “He’ll be between us. He’ll keep marching till we tell him to stop. See?”

She nodded, moistening her lips. “Y‑yes. Is—that—going to happen to all of us?”

Garth said nothing. There wasn’t anything to say.

But he knew, as he led the party away from the camp, how long a gamble he was undertaking. There were so many chances that he might fail! The odds were plenty tough—yet the stakes were equally high.

Had he known how difficult those odds were, Garth might not have risked it. For the Noctoli poison worked faster than he had guessed.

Meantime he guided ten sullen, fearful men, a walking corpse, and a girl deeper into the unexplored heart of the Black Forest. The Noctoli flowers breathed their poison from the underbrush, deadly and relentlessly.

VI

That day they met a new enemy: jet-black lizards, five feet long, that clung to the black tree-boles, perfectly camouflaged, till the party came close. Then the reptiles flashed toward them, fanged jaws gaping. Constant alertness was all that saved them—that, and the blazing guns that killed the monsters.

Presence of the lizards was no respite from the other perils. The bloodsucker plants were more numerous, and the camouflage-moss made deceptively inviting paths through the red gloom. By dark, everyone was nearly exhausted, nerves worn to rags. Garth knew it would not take much for the men to explode into furious resentment against him.

Luckily, an hour after they had made camp, Captain Brown woke from his drugged trance, perfectly normal. But it took a while to make him understand what had happened.

For the first time Garth saw Brown lose his iron self-control, and then it was only for a moment. A flash of stark horror showed on the Captain’s lean, hard face, to be gone instantly.

He lit a cigarette, his eyes brooding on Paula and Garth. Briefly he glanced past them to the men, preparing their rations.

“Uh-huh. Not so good. I suppose it’s useless to think of traveling by night.”

“It’s impossible,” Garth told him.

“You can make more antitoxin?”

“Sure—but not here. It’s too dangerous. We’ve been safe so far because we’ve moved fast, camping at a different spot every night. If we holed up, we’d have a gang of monsters down on us in no time.”

Brown considered. “It’s a nasty business, having my own body go back on me. A bit of a shock. Well—” He let smoke drift from his nostrils. “Two more days ahead of us, eh? Then we reach the lost city.”

“If it is a city. We don’t even know that.”

“But we do know there may be Zarno around. We’ll have to arrive there soon after dark, so I’ll be … conscious. If there’s a fight, I want to be in on it. Why the devil didn’t you test that antitoxin, Garth?” His voice was harshly angry.

Garth didn’t answer. Brown had given him the rush act, but he wasn’t making any excuses.

Paula said, “This isn’t the best time to quarrel. You’d better talk to the men, Carver, so there’ll be no trouble tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I suppose so.”

Even the rebellious Sampson was convinced by Brown’s well-chosen remarks.

They slept uneasily, with guards replaced every two hours, and the next day woke to find Captain Brown once more sunk into his Noctoli-trance. A few of the men complained of headaches.

By midmorning Paula succumbed to the poison. Garth did not realize at first what had happened. Then, turning, he saw the girl’s blank face and wide eyes fixed straight ahead as she marched along, and knew that she was entranced by the Noctoli till nightfall. The exercise of walking, speeding metabolism, had hastened the action of the virus.

They went on. An hour later another man went under. Then another. By noon only five men, including Garth and Sampson, were still conscious.

Their difficulties increased proportionately. They had to be on guard every second. The Noctoli victims walked quietly in line, but they did not react to danger. If the tentacles of a bloodsucker plant flashed out, they wouldn’t try to escape. Their instinct of self-preservation had been dulled and blanketed.

The afternoon was pure hell. Garth, Sampson, and one other man had to guard and lead the rest. Their guns crashed incessantly, it seemed.

When they camped at the onset of darkness, Sampson and Garth alone remained.

The red-haired giant, swaying on his feet, squinted at Garth, his face haggard with exhaustion.

“Nice going,” he said sardonically, after a time. “What now? Maybe we’d better cut our throats.”

Garth managed a shaky grin. “We’re still okay. And there’s only one more day left. Tomorrow—we’ll make it then. We’ve got to.”

Unwilling admiration showed in Sampson’s eyes. “You’re dead on your feet. I don’t see how the hell you keep up this pace. Anyhow—we can’t go back now. That’s settled, anyway.”

“Yeah. The others will wake up after a while. We’ll have to stay on guard till then.”

They did, guns drawn, peering at the silent depths of the Forest around them, while the rest of the party lay motionless, helpless against attack.

After a time Sampson spoke. Garth could not see his face in the heavy gloom.

“What are you after, Garth?”

“Eh?”

“I had you ticketed wrong. A beachcomber. … There must be something plenty important where we’re going, or you wouldn’t be so anxious to get there. What is it? Treasure, of course, but—jewels? Or what?”

Garth chuckled. “There may be. I don’t know. Don’t care.”

“Hm‑m.” Sampson was silent, baffled. Garth’s mind swung back to that ever-present question. Had he killed Doc Willard? Very soon, now, he might know the answer.

But that was important only to him. The vital point was the black notebook Doc had with him.

After a time Captain Brown stirred and sat up. Then the others. The men were a little panicky, but the presence of Brown and Sampson calmed them.

Garth, relieved of guard duty, had fallen asleep almost instantly.

He woke at dawn. Red twilight filtered down from above. The others were lying motionless in their blankets. Sampson’s big body was huddled at the base of a tree.

Wearily Garth got up and went over to the giant. “Sampson!” he called. “Wake up! We’ve got a job—”

He stopped. Sampson’s eyes were open, fixed and blank, and his dark cheeks had a significant ruddy flush.

The Noctoli poison—!

Garth stepped back, white to the lips. A sudden, horrible sense of loneliness pressed down on him. In the jungle things seemed to move, closing in menacingly.

He was alone now.

Alone—with twelve helpless companions to guard!

Somehow—somehow!—he had to get them through. One more day, and they would be at their goal. They could not stay here, that was certain.

Garth searched Sampson’s pack till he found a half-empty whiskey bottle. He poured the burning stuff down his throat, though it rocked him back on his heels. But he needed artificial stimulation; it was the only thing that could keep him going now.

It helped. Garth took Sampson’s gun and stuck it in his belt. If his own jammed or ran out of ammunition, today, it would be unfortunate.

One more day.

One more day!

Somehow, he got Sampson, Brown and the others lined up. They would march when he gave the word. The hypnotic trance of the Noctoli pollen had turned them into robots.

Garth put Paula directly behind him. The sight of her wan, drawn face made him feel a little frightened, though not for himself. He was remembering Moira, who had died on Earth years ago.

Eleven men and a girl—and he was the only one who could save them.

Garth made sure that the packs were in place on the men’s shoulders. He took another drink, pulled out one of the guns, and gave the command to march.

Like automatons the line followed him.

If the day before had been hell, this was double-distilled hell.

Within an hour, Garth’s nerves were scraped raw. He had to be constantly alert. The wrenching strain of watching for camouflaged menace made his eyes ache. When movement came, he had to be ready. Ready to squeeze the trigger. …

He had to have eyes in the back of his head. For Sampson, at the tail of the procession, was as helpless as the others.

Liquor kept Garth going. Without it, he would have collapsed. By noon he was forced to call a halt, his eyes throbbing with the strain. But even then he could not relax. Danger waited everywhere.

He never remembered what happened that afternoon. He must have acted automatically, through blind instinct. But he got them through, somehow. …

It was like awakening from deep sleep. Garth was abruptly conscious that he was marching forward, his head moving rhythmically, his eyes searching the jungle. The red twilight was almost gone.

He whirled, to see Paula directly behind him, unharmed. The others were strung out in single file—all of them, with Sampson’s red head at the end. None was missing.

Garth shivered. His body was aching like fire. A quick glance showed him that his clothes were ribboned, his skin scratched raw, a long slash along his ribs. It had been treated with antiseptic, he saw, though he did not remember administering first aid, nor what had caused the wound.

What had wakened him? He peered through the gloom, making out a dark bulk, regular in outline, ahead and to his left. A few paces further gave him the answer. It was a building, of black stone or metal, no more than twelve feet high, and with an archway gaping in the nearest side.

Somehow it struck a chord of memory. They must be near their goal. No savages had built this structure. The Ancient Race?

The Zarno—they might be near by. It would not do to encounter them now, while the men were in their Noctoli trance. And here, in the Forest, they were without cover, at the mercy of the Zarno should they appear.

Garth reconnoitered quietly, leading the others, for he dared not leave them alone. The black building seemed untenanted. He could vaguely make out a flight of steps leading down into darkness, and, more important than that, the threshold itself was thick with dust and mould. The—temple—was empty.

Which made it a good place to hide. Garth was beginning to realize he could not keep going much longer, at least without collapsing. But soon after dark the others would recover from their trance.

He stepped warily across the threshold, into the gloom of the temple. Simultaneously the flooring sank almost imperceptibly beneath his feet, and a deep, brazen bell-note boomed out, hushed with distance, as though it came from underground.

Indecision held Garth motionless for a moment. That clang was a signal of some sort—a warning against trespassers? A warning to whom?

He was answered quickly. A low cry came, harsh and oddly familiar. It was the first of many. Garth, hesitating on the threshold, uncertain which way the danger lay, instinctively reached out his arm and dragged Paula close. She came obediently to his side, her eyes seeing nothing. The others—they stood like frozen statues.

Something flashed amid the underbrush. The scarlet tangle of vines and leaves was torn aside, and a figure leaped into view.

A figure, manlike—yet not human!

At first glance it seemed to be a man in armor, more than six feet tall, and proportionately broad. Its body gleamed with reflected light. Neckless, its head was a hairless, shining ball whose only features were two oval, jet-black eyes. They were uncannily menacing.

A statue come to life! For the creature’s body was obviously not flesh—it was hard, rough and shiny as translucent glass. Silicate life!

Sprung from a silicon chemical base, as Earth life comes from carbon—but sentient, intelligent, and dangerous!

Others like it raced into view, pausing as they saw Garth and his companions. The first stepped forward. He had no mouth, but a circular diaphragm below and between his eyes vibrated rapidly, forming recognizable words.

“Al-khron ghanro ssel ’ri—”

It was the Ancient Tongue, which Garth had learned five years before, and never forgotten. It came back to him easily now. He was beginning to remember other things, too. These creatures—he had seen them before. The Zarno—

“We come in peace.” He raised one hand, his nerves jolting, waiting for the answer. Presently it came.

“You are not a god. The others with you are not gods. We are the Zarno; we destroy. We guard the house of the gods till they return.”

Another of the silicate creatures pushed forward. “Do you not know this being, Kharn? Eight ystods ago he came here with another like him. Do you remember?”

Kharn nodded slowly. “That is true. We did not slay them then, for we thought they were messengers from the gods. They pretended to be—we were not sure. This one escaped. The other went into the Darkness.”

The other? Doc Willard? Garth felt his throat tighten.

“The—Darkness? What is that?”

“The place from which only the gods return,” Kharn said slowly.

Did he mean—death? Before Garth could ask, the second Zarno spoke.

“They must be taken and sacrificed, Kharn.”

Garth took out his gun. “Wait,” he said sharply, as the Zarno moved forward. “We have weapons. We can destroy you.”

“You do not speak the truth. Only the gods can destroy us. Ages ago they came here and built their temple and taught us to be wise. When they left us, we stayed on, to guard the sacred places.”

Garth’s mouth felt dry. “We are messengers from the gods—” he declared.

“It is not true.” Kharn began to walk forward. “Take them!”

Garth knew he had lost.

It was like a nightmare, the steady, relentless approach of the monstrous beings. Garth held his gun leveled. His arm tightened around Paula’s shoulders.

“Keep back,” he commanded, conscious of the uselessness of the words.

Instead, Kharn and the others walked on. The creature’s shining arm lifted, clamped on Garth’s shoulder. He fired.

Kharn did not seem to feel the bullet, though it had not missed. Garth squeezed the trigger again. The pistol jolted against his palm.

The Zarno were—invulnerable!

Garth fought, nevertheless. He could see the silicate men lifting his companions like sacks of meal, hoisting them to gleaming shoulders, and carrying them, unresisting, through the forest. Paula was torn from his grasp. Cursing, he struck out at Kharn’s impassive, inhuman face with the revolver-butt. Useless! Nothing could harm these creatures of living stone.

Ignoring his struggles, Kharn prisoned Garth’s arms and lifted him. Helpless, Garth was carried after the others. He forced himself to relax. A fury of impotent rage flooded him.

He battled it down. Better wait. A chance might come later; just now, there was none. Wait—

Through the forest they went, a score of the silicate creatures, striding like armored giants in the darkening red glow. Not far. A pillar of black metal loomed before them soon, broken by an archway. Two of the monsters guarded it. For a moment Garth mistook the monolith for one of the ebony trees; then he realized his error as they crossed the threshold and began to descend a spiral ramp.

Now there was light, a cool, silvery radiance that seemed to come from the walls. Kharn’s footsteps thumped hollow, tirelessly. Sudden weakness made Garth dizzy. He caught a glimpse of a well around which the ramp wound, a pit dropping away to the heart of a world, it seemed.

Utter exhaustion struck him like a physical blow.

VII

He remembered, dimly, what happened after that. It was like a series of fantastic visions, nightmare flashes of memory. At the bottom of the spiral was a cave, reminiscent of Chahnn and the other cities of the Ancients Garth had seen. Enigmatic machines loomed here and there. Unlike Chahnn, this city was lighted with the pale glow that came out of the walls and high-domed ceilings.

Cavern after cavern—peopled with the silicate creatures, filled with the dead machines of the Ancients! And, finally, an immense cave, its floor slanting up to a raised dais at one end. On the platform a throne of black metal stood, and seated upon it was a gigantic four-armed robot, larger than any Garth had ever seen before—standing, it would have been twelve feet tall, he judged.

Garth got only a glimpse of this. He was carried on swiftly to a smaller cavern where metal doors lined the walls. One of these was unlocked. He, with the other Earthmen, was carried within and dumped unceremoniously on the floor. The Zarno departed, clanging the door shut after them.

Then—silence.

Garth staggered to his feet, staring around. The cell was oddly familiar. He had been in it, or one like it, five years ago with Doc Willard. The silvery light came from the wall, and there was a grating in the door. That was all.

He reached the grating and peered out. Two Zarno were on guard not far away. The lock—it might be possible to pick it, Garth thought, but the silicate creatures were invulnerable. So that would do no good.

Captain Brown’s clipped voice said, “Where the hell are we, Garth?”

“Huh? Oh, you’re awake.” Garth laughed harshly. “You should have waked up half an hour ago. Not that it would have done any good—”

Brown stood up stiffly. “What d’you mean? What’s happened?”

The others were waking now. For a few moments the cell was a babble of questions. One of the Zarno came briefly to the grill in the door and looked in. Shocked quiet greeted him.

After he had gone, Garth took advantage of the silence to say, “I’ll tell you what’s been going on, and then I’m going to sleep. I’ll go to sleep anyway, unless I talk fast. I’m dead beat.”

Sampson squinted at the door. “Tough customers. Shoot, Garth. I’ve got a hunch we’re in a bad spot.”

“We are. Listen—” Briefly Garth explained what had happened.

There were questions and counter-questions.

“You can speak their lingo, eh?”

“That won’t help, Brown.”

“They can’t be invulnerable.”

“They are—to our weapons. Silicate life!”

“When will they—sacrifice us?” Paula asked, a little shaken, though she tried not to show it.

Garth shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I can talk ’em out of it. God knows. They worship the gods—the Ancients, I suppose—but they know we’re not gods. So that’s that.”

“Well—”

They talked inconclusively. Sampson casually wandered over to the door, found a twisted scrap of wire, and used it on the lock. After a while he called softly to the others.

“This thing’s a snap. It won’t keep us in here.”

Garth came over. “There are guards. It’s no use.”

One of the Zarno approached and peered in through the grill.

“Kharn has said you will not be hungry long. Tomorrow you will all die. You eat, like the creatures of the forest, do you not?”

“What’s he saying?” Sampson muttered.

“Nothing important.” Garth switched to the Ancient Tongue. “It will be dangerous to kill us. We are messengers of the gods.”

“We will believe that,” the Zarno said, “when one of the gods tells us so.” He nodded impassively and retreated.

Paula touched Garth’s arm. “Isn’t there any way—”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not.”

“There’s light here. There’s none in the other cities of the Ancients. That means the power-source still works here. If we can find it—”

Garth couldn’t look at her, knowing they were doomed to die the next day. He shrugged, turned away, and found an empty corner. Ignoring the others, he tried to relax on the hard floor. His brain just wasn’t working now. It was fagged out. He had a vague hunch that there might be a way out—but he was too exhausted to follow it up now. A few hours’ sleep was vital.

But he slept past dawn. When he awoke, he saw the others lying motionless, their eyes fixed in the blank stare of the Noctoli trance.

Glancing at the chronometer on Brown’s wrist, Garth figured swiftly. It was past dawn. That meant there was little time left in which to act—provided action was possible. But sleep had refreshed him, though his muscles still ached painfully. He was beginning to remember what his hunch had been.

When he and Doc Willard had been captives, there had been guards only at night. During the long Ganymedean day, none was necessary, for the Noctoli poison had been active then. By day, the Zarno thought, men of flesh were tranced and helpless. Unless—

Garth moved quietly to the door. Through the grill he saw the cave, empty of life. There were no guards. He was glad he had slept past dawn, so that the Zarno were able to believe him entranced like the others.

But what now? Escape? To where? There was still power in the lost city; perhaps the weapons of the Ancients still existed. Weapons stronger than guns to conquer the Zarno! But, regardless of that, it was necessary to find a hiding-place. This was the day of sacrifice.

Ironic thought—a hiding-place in an underground city teeming with the Zarno!

Garth shrugged. The door was locked, he discovered, and it took time to find the twisted wire Sampson had used. Even then, Garth was unable to manipulate the intricate tumblers. He scowled, chewing his lip, and eying the wire. Sampson’s skilled fingers were necessary.

He roused the red-haired giant and led him to the door. Sampson looked straight ahead, his eyes dull. He obeyed when Garth spoke—but that was all. Was his skill sufficiently instinctive to be used now?

There was only one way to find out. Garth put the wire in Sampson’s hand.

“Unlock the door.”

He had to repeat the command twice before Sampson understood. Then the big man bent, fumbling with the lock, working with agonizing slowness.

Hours seemed to drag past before Sampson straightened.

Garth tried the door. It opened. The first step was accomplished, anyhow. The others would be more difficult. He was unfamiliar with the underground city. How the devil could he evade the Zarno and find a hiding-place? Alone, he would have a better chance. But he had twelve companions to take with him.

He spoke to each of them. “Follow me. You understand? Follow me till I tell you to stop. Move as quietly as you can.”

Then he led them out of the cell.

The city, as he speedily learned, was a labyrinth. Luckily there were innumerable cross-passages. And all the cities of the Ancients had been built along a similar plan. Garth knew the layout of Chahnn, and that helped him now. But there were times when he had to move fast, and the others walked as though striding through water.

“Quick! In here! Fast!”

And they would follow him, into a side tunnel, while the heavy, metallic foosteps of the Zarno approached like the drums of doom.

But there was no place to hide permanently. Worst of all, a distant clanging sounded presently, and Garth guessed what that meant. The escape of the captives had been discovered.

Gingerly he skirted the huge cave where the dais was, glimpsing the giant robot in the distance, and shepherding his charges along a twisting corridor that led down. But the footsteps were growing louder. Garth was almost certain that they were following.

He increased his pace, with wary glances behind him. Unless he found a side passage soon, the swift Zarno would speedily overtake them.

“Faster! Move faster!”

The Earthmen tried to obey. Like automatons they ran, their eyes fixed and staring, while the clamor of pursuit grew louder. Looking back, Garth saw a flash of shining movement The Zarno!

“Faster!”

There were no side tunnels. They came out into a small cave, completely empty. It was a cul-de-sac. Light was reflected brightly from three walls.

The fourth wall was dead black—neither rock nor stone. It was like a jet curtain, blocking their path. Garth jerked to a halt, knowing the utter hopelessness of futility. They were trapped now.

The Zarno were pursuing, unmistakably.

Garth took out his useless gun. His face was set in grim lines. What good were bullets against the silicate creatures?

But waiting helplessly was far worse. At least he could try to fight.

He had forgotten to command his charges to halt. Glancing around, Garth saw something that made his eyes widen in incredulous amazement. Paula was walking toward the black curtain—the wall—

She stepped through it and vanished.

Brown followed her. Then another man. And another.

Last of all, Sampson, disappearing like a ghost through the blackness!

Heavy footsteps whirled Garth about. Down the corridor he could see the flashing gleams that heralded the Zarno. His tight grin was a grimace.

“The hell with you, pals,” he said softly—and turned again. He raced in pursuit of the others.

Leaped through the dark curtain!

There was an instant of grinding, jolting shock that left him blind. He staggered, caught himself, and saw that he was in a passage that led toward a distant brightness. Silhouetted against the glow were the moving figures of his companions.

He sprinted after them. But he did not overtake them till they had emerged in a cavern unlike any he had seen before.

“Okay! Stop! Stop, that’s right.”

They halted, motionless. Garth looked behind him, but there was no trace of the Zarno.

This cavern was lighted like the others. But there were fewer machines. Row after row of the giant four-armed robots stood like an army on the dark-metal floor. The walls were jeweled, thousands of pearly disks studding them. A low humming came from a machine nearby, a tripod with lenses surmounting a square box.

Garth walked through it. He hesitated, glanced around again, and then peered through the lenses.

A voice seemed to speak within his brain.

“—invoked the rule of silence. After that, Genjaro Lo declared that space travel was inevitable and might solve the natural problems of our civilization—”

It had spoken in the Ancient Tongue. And, at the same time, Garth had seen a picture of a huge, four-armed being with a bulging, yet oddly symmetrical head, standing on a rostrum addressing a multitude—

“Ed!” The voice rang through the silent cavern. “Ed Garth! You made it!”

Garth whirled. A man had emerged from a cavern-mouth nearby, a short, slight man with white hair and a lined, tired face. He ran forward, his ragged garments flapping, his eyes shining.

Garth said, in a voice like a prayer, “Doc Willard. You’re alive!”

VIII

Willard gripped his friend’s hands. “Alive, yes. If you can call it that. I’ve been living for only one thing. I knew you’d come back, with help, if you got through. And you did!”

The cavern was spinning around Garth. He braced himself, staring at the man.

“Doc! I’ve been going crazy for five years. I thought I—I’d killed you.”

Willard stared. “Killed me? But—”

“That altar!” The words tumbled out of Garth’s mouth. “I couldn’t remember much. That damned Noctoli poison—I lost my memory. But I knew I’d tried to knife you while you were stretched out on an altar—”

Sympathy showed in Willard’s eyes. “Good Lord, Ed! And you could remember only that? You must have gone through hell.”

“I did. I didn’t know what—”

“But we planned it. The whole thing. A fake ceremony, to impress the Zarno and give us a chance to escape. They thought we might be messengers from their gods—the Ancients—and we told ’em so, after we’d learned their language. The sacrifice—it was a fake, that’s all. And it went through as we planned. You pretended to stab me, and while the Zarno were bowing and genuflecting, we got away. At least you did. They recaptured me.”

Garth shook his head. “Tell me. I don’t know, really.”

Willard glanced at the Earthmen, curiosity in his eyes. “You’ve a bit of explaining to do yourself, Ed. Are they—Noctoli?”

“Yeah. I worked out an antitoxin, but it was stale.” Quickly Garth explained what had happened.

“I see. Well—got a cigarette?” Willard sucked the smoke luxuriously into his lungs. “That’s good. Five years since I had one of these. Sit down and let’s talk. No chairs, but try the floor.”

“Okay. What happened to you?”

“Nothing much. When we staged our fake ceremony—the Zarno are plenty religious—I headed for that little black temple in the forest. Know the place?”

“Yeah. That’s where they caught us.”

“Well, it leads to freedom. There’s an underground tunnel that takes you out in a camouflaged hangar. The Ancients had antigravity. I found out later, and their flying-boats were hidden there. They’re still good, Ed. They still work. I’d have got away if the Zarno hadn’t been right on my heels.”

“So?”

Willard nodded. “The controls are easy. A couple of push-buttons and a steering-lever. I’d got a few feet off the ground when a couple of Zarno jumped into the boat with me. They heaved me out and followed. The flying-boat went off to Mars or somewhere, I suppose—it kept on going straight up. But there are others. Only I’ve never been able to get at them. If I could have, I’d have headed for Oretown, pronto.”

Garth’s eyes were glowing. “If we could reach that hangar, Doc, we could escape—all of us.”

“Sure. Only we can’t. Too many guards. It’s impossible to get out of this city. I’ve tried often enough. The only way I managed to survive was by entering the Darkness.” His voice trailed away.

“That black wall?”

“It’s a vibration-barrier. None of the Zarno can pass it. It shakes them to pieces—destroys them. The Ancients made it, I suppose, to guard their library.” Willard extended his hand in a sweeping gesture. “This is it. All the knowledge of the Ancients—tremendous knowledge—compiled here for reference. If we could only get it out to the world!”

Garth remembered something. “Does it mention their power-source?”

“Sure. I’ve had nothing to do for five years but study the library. I could put my finger on the wire-tape recording that explains the process. It’s an intricate business, but we could duplicate it on Earth easily enough.”

Paula would be glad to know that, Garth thought. The secret of the Ancients’ power, that could replace oil and coal—a vital secret to Earth now.

Willard was still talking. “I ran when I heard you coming. I’d been studying one of the recordings, but I thought the Zarno might have got through the barrier somehow. … It doesn’t harm humans, luckily, or the robots. I learned a lot in five years.”

“How did you manage to keep alive?”

“I found food. The Ancients had stocked up this place. Pills!” Willard grimaced. “They kept me alive, and there was a machine for making water out of the air. But I’m hungry for a steak.”

Garth scowled. “Doc—one more thing. You know what I mean?”

Willard sobered. “I get it, Ed. The cure. Whether or not I—”

“Whether or not you’ve found the cure for the Silver Plague. It hasn’t been checked yet. It’s still killing thousands on Earth.”

“So. I wondered a lot about that. Well—the answer is yes, Ed. I know the answer.”

“The cure?”

“Yes. I worked it out, completely, with the aid of the Ancients’ library. They were studying it too, but they didn’t have quite the right angle. However, they were able to supply the missing data I needed.” Willard took from his pocket a small notebook. “I had five years to work on it. So far, of course, it’s theoretical, but everything checks. It’s the cure, all right.”

Somehow Garth didn’t feel much excitement. Five years ago, he thought, that notebook would have saved Moira’s life. Now—well, it would still save life. It would save Earth. But—

He shrugged. “Two good reasons to get back to civilization. The cure, and the secret of the power-source.”

Willard nodded. “The Ancients died of the Silver Plague, indirectly. They tried to escape by changing their bodies. The library told me that.”

“Their bodies? How?”

“Well—you’ve seen the robots in Chahnn and here. Originally they were the servants of the Ancients.”

“Intelligent?”

“No—not in the way you mean. They could be conditioned to perform certain tasks, but usually they were controlled telepathically by the Ancients, who wore specialized helmet-transmitters for the purpose. The robots had radio-atomic brains that reacted to telepathic commands. Then when the Silver Plague struck, the Ancients tried to escape by transplanting, not their physical brains, but their minds. I don’t quite know how it was done. But the thought-patterns, the individual mental matrix, of each Ancient was somehow impressed on the radio-atomic brain of a robot. Their minds were put into the robots’ brains—and controlled the metal bodies. So they escaped the Plague. But they died anyway. Human, intelligent minds can’t be transplanted successfully into artificial bodies that way. So—in a hundred years—they were dead, all of them.”

So that was the secret of the Ancients’ disappearance from Ganymede. They had taken new bodies—and those bodies had killed them through their sheer alienage.

Willard crushed out his cigarette-stub. “All the knowledge of the Ancients at my fingertips, Ed. You can imagine what research I’ve done!”

“I should have thought you’d have looked for a weapon against the Zarno,” Garth said practically. “The Ancients were able to conquer them.”

“I did—first of all, after I’d learned how to work the recording-machines. A certain ray will destroy them—a vibrationary beam that shakes them to pieces, disrupts their molecular structure. The only trouble is—” Willard grinned sardonically. “It takes a damn good machine shop to build such a projector.”

“Oh. We couldn’t—”

“We couldn’t. The Ancients left plenty of apparatus here, but not the right kind. Mostly records, and a lot of robots. Sorry, Ed, but unless you brought good weapons with you, you’re stuck here with me.”

Garth looked around to where his companions were standing motionless. “Yeah. Looks like it. Unless we can break through to that hangar of antigravity ships—”

“We can’t. The city’s full of the Zarno, day and night. And there are always guards outside.”

Garth sighed. “The trouble is, unless we get out, nothing can stop the Silver Plague. Not to mention the fuel shortage. Wait a minute. You said the Zarno were superstitious—we tricked them once with a fake ceremony. Couldn’t we try that again?”

“I did,” Willard told them. “It didn’t work. The Zarno know what human beings are like now. Only the gods would impress them—those robots who once were their masters.”

Garth stopped breathing for a moment.

“There’s a way,” he said.

Willard looked at him. “I don’t think so. When I saw you’d come back, I hoped for a minute—but it’s no use. The Zarno are invulnerable to any weapons we can create here. We can’t get out of the city!”

“You said the gods would impress them.”

“The gods are dead—the Ancients.”

“Suppose one of them came back?”

Willard caught his breath. “What do you mean?”

“Originally the robots were controlled telepathically. Why can’t that work now—for us?”

“Don’t you imagine I thought of that? But it’s no use, without one of them helmet-transmitters. And there aren’t any. …” Willard sucked in his breath. “Hold on! I’d forgotten something. There’s one transmitter left—just one. But it’s not a portable.”

“Swell!”

“Wait a minute. Come over here.” The older man led the way to a tripod-projector, found a cylindrical black object, and slipped it into place. “Look at this.”

Peering through the eyepieces, Garth recognized the great cavern with the dais at one end. The scene shifted, showing the gigantic twelve-foot robot sitting on its throne, a solid block of black metal.

“Watch,” Willard said.

A voice spoke in Garth’s mind, in the Ancient Tongue. “It was necessary to impress the superstitious Zarno. Thus we created this robot god and placed it on its throne. Its radio-atomic brain can be controlled telepathically by means of a transmitter concealed within the throne.”

The scene changed, showing the back of the ebony block. A hand, inhuman, six-fingered, came into view—the hand of an Ancient. It touched a concealed spring, and the throne’s back slid open, revealing a compartment easily large enough to hold a man.

“Here is the transmitter. It is placed on the head and the will focused on issuing telepathic commands to the robot god on the throne.”

There was more, but now Garth watched with only half his mind. He scarcely saw the details of the ritual ceremony with which the Ancients had impressed the Zarno. When the vision vanished, he swung about, a new light in his eyes.

“That’s it, Doc! That robot god’s going to come to life!”

Willard frowned. “Um‑m. The gadget isn’t difficult to operate—I’ve learned that much from the recordings. You just think hard, that’s all. But—”

“The god will come to life and summon the Zarno—all of them. The rest of you can escape while I’m keeping ’em busy.”

“Hold on!” the doctor snapped. “Why you? It’s my job, if it’s anybody’s.”

“Sorry,” Garth said. “It doesn’t work out that way. You’re the only guy who can cure the Silver Plague. Unless you get out safely, it’s the end of Earth.”

Willard didn’t answer. Garth went on swiftly.

“You could reach the hangar if it weren’t for the Zarno. Well, I’ll get inside that throne and start the ruckus. That’ll give you time.” His voice was emotionless.

“How do you know you could reach that temple-cave? The city’s full of Zarno.”

Garth shrugged. “It’s a chance we’ve got to take. The only one.”

Willard chewed his lip. “Why the devil do you have to be the one?”

“Because I know the Ancient Tongue. The robot can talk, can’t it? Well! It’s between you and me, Doc, and you’re the boy who can cure the Silver Plague. You can’t get away from that.”

“I—I suppose so. But—”

“You know the way out. Give me time to reach the temple and begin the ceremony. Then lead the others out. They’ll obey you; they’re in the Noctoli trance. Get ’em to the hangar and light out for Oretown. Be sure to take the recording of the power-source with you.”

“You crazy fool,” Willard said through stiff lips. “What about Moira?”

Garth’s face went gray. “Moira died years ago,” he said carefully. “It was the Silver Plague.”

Doc didn’t reply. But he nodded as though he had unexpectedly learned the answer to a problem that had been puzzling him.

“Okay,” Garth said. “You know what to do. Give me time enough to make it. Then get out of here with the others, fast.”

Willard’s hand gripped Garth’s. “Ed—”

“Forget it.”

He moved toward the tunnel-mouth. Paula, he saw, was lying near by, her red-gold hair cascading about her pale, lovely face.

Garth stood looking down at her for a long moment. Then he went on, into the tunnel that waited for him. He did not look back.

Cautiously he stepped through the black curtain, ready to retreat at sight of any Zarno. But the cavern was empty.

If he could make it—!

Noiselessly he stole up the passage. Once he froze against the wall at the sound of distant footsteps. But they faded and were gone.

He came out at last into a corridor he recognized. Far away, he saw the flashing gleam of the Zarno’s silicate skins. They were approaching, but apparently had not seen him yet.

He raced for the archway that led into the temple-cavern. If there were any Zarno there, it would be fatal. But luck favored him. The immense room was empty. At the far end the huge robot sat on its jet throne.

Garth sprinted across the floor. He could hear voices growing louder in the distance, and the thumping of the Zarnos’ footsteps, but he dared not risk a glance behind. Could he make it?

He jerked to a halt, springing behind the throne, its bulk temporarily hiding him. The Zarno were in the temple-cave now; he could tell that by their voices. Hastily he sought the secret spring.

A panel opened in the ebon block. It was exactly as he had seen it on the tripod-recording machine, a fair-sized cubicle with light coming faintly through a vision-slit in one wall. Garth wedged himself in and slid the panel shut behind him, gasping with relief. Peering through the slit, he found he could see the entire cavern. Three Zarno were approaching.

The robot, seated on the throne above him, was, of course, invisible. Garth stared around, trying to remember the details of the Ancients’ recording. A helmet transmitter … there it was, attached by wires to the low ceiling. Warily Garth slipped it upon his head.

What now?

A flat black plate, like a diaphragm, was set in the wall slightly above his head as he crouched. This hiding-place, he realized, had been built for the larger bodies of the Ancients.

Closing his eyes, he tried to concentrate. Doc Willard had said the helmet-transmitters worked that way. Telepathy—willpower—

“Stand up!” he commanded silently to the unseen robot above him. “Stand up!”

There was a stir of movement. Garth, peering through the slit, saw the three Zarno jerk to a halt.

One of them cried, “The gods return! Kra-enlarnov! The gods!”

Garth put his mouth close to the diaphragm. His words, amplified, rolled out through the cavern in the Ancient Tongue.

“Yes—the gods return! Summon the Zarno! Let none fail to obey the summons!”

Shouts went up. The Zarno whirled and raced away. For the moment, Garth was alone.

He concentrated on the transmitter again, commanding the robot to move forward to the edge of the dais, till he could see its back.

“Raise your arm. Step back. Forward again. Back.”

It worked. The robot obeyed his mental commands, awkwardly, but—it obeyed.

“Back. Sit on the throne.”

A jarring crash deafened Garth momentarily. He had forgotten how huge the robot was. No doubt the creature should lever itself down gradually into its seat, instead of dropping a ton of metal solidly on the black block.

Footsteps again. The Zarno were beginning to pour into the cavern. Huge as it was, they almost filled it. They flung themselves flat, crawling toward the dais, nodding their misshapen heads in awkward rhythm. Their voices were raised in a deep-throated chant.

Garth concentrated. At his mental command, the robot rose and paced slowly forward.

“Kra-enlar!”

Garth put his mouth to the diaphragm. His voice crashed out.

“The gods have returned! Hear me, O Zarno!”

“We hear!”

“Let no Zarno fail to come to the temple of the gods. Have the guards left their posts?”

“Nay—nay!”

“Summon them,” Garth roared. “When the gods speak, all must hearken. Let every Zarno come to me now, or die!”

Some of the creatures raced away and returned with others. The chant continued.

“Have any Zarno failed to heed my summons?”

“None—none! We are here—all!”

Garth nearly shouted with relief. There were almost two thousand Zarno in the cavern, he judged, all genuflecting before the dais. And that meant that the city was unguarded—that Doc Willard could lead the others to the antigravity hangar.

If he could hold the Zarno here!

Garth shook his head, feeling oddly dizzy. He tried to concentrate. At his mental order, the giant robot lifted its arms in symbolic, ritualistic gestures he remembered from the tripod-recorder.

But the dizziness persisted. Garth realized that his lungs were hurting. He found it difficult to draw a deep breath.

Air—he needed fresh air! The inhuman lungs of the Ancients probably were able to endure lack of oxygen far better than the human organism. In any case—Garth realized that the air was getting stale.

He investigated the vision-slit. It was barred by a glassy, transparent pane that seemed as hard as steel. Well, it would be necessary to open the panel behind him—a few inches, anyway. Garth’s hand sought for the spring. It was in plain sight; there was no need to conceal it within the throne’s compartment.

He pressed it. There was a low grinding that stopped almost immediately. Garth tried again.

Useless. The mechanism, somehow, was jammed. Probably its mechanism had failed when the huge robot had crashed down on the throne.

That meant—

Garth’s fingers tried to find some purchase on the smooth surface of the panel. He failed. …

A Zarno called a question. Garth turned back to the eye-slit, trying to fight back his dizziness. Heads were lifted, he saw, watching him inquiringly, as though the silicate creatures expected something. Well—

He made the robot move again, its arms reaching out in ancient ceremonial gestures. A gasp of awe came from the Zarno.

Their chant thundered out, deeper, sonorous and inhuman.

Garth felt the beginning of a throbbing ache in his temples. He was trapped here. How long could he stand it? He was human, not one of the Ancients. He needed air—

He held the Zarno, but not for long. Once more bulbous heads were lifted, oval eyes watching him inquiringly. They were expecting something—what? Garth tried to remember what he had seen in the recorder.

More heads were lifted.

Garth made the robot step forward, raising its metal arms. He had to say something—anything that would hold the Zarno quiet for a while, long enough for Doc and the others to escape. Words he had forgotten since childhood came suddenly unexpectedly to him. The English phrases meant nothing to the Zarno, but the sonorous, powerful chant kept them silent.

“He shall deliver thee from the snare of the hunter; and from the noisome pestilence. … Thou shalt not be afraid for any terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day. … A thousand shall fall beside thee, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee. …”

The agony flamed up again in Garth’s brain, consuming, terrible. The huge robot body of the dais swayed, caught itself, and the chant thundered out again through the great cavern.

“If I take the wings of the morning; and remain in the uttermost parts of the sea; even there also shall thy hand lead me. …”

The distant, harsh clangor of a bell sounded. Garth had heard it before, when he had crossed the threshold of the black temple in the forest. At the sound the Zarno stirred, and a few of them sprang up.

Garth thrust out his hand, fighting back the pain that tore at him like white flame.

His voice held them—

“The floods are risen, O Lord, the floods have lifted up their voices; the floods lift up their waves. … The waves of the sea are mighty, and rage horribly: but yet the Lord, who dwelleth on high, is mightier—”

He held them. He held them, speaking a tongue they did not know, while his mind shook under the impact of sanity-destroying pain. A slow, sick bitterness crept into his soul. Was this the end—death here, prisoned on an alien world, so far from his home planet?

Death—and for what?

He closed his mind to the thought. Mentally he paced Doc and the others through the tunnel, from the black temple to the hangar. Surely they must have reached it by now! Paula—

That first glimpse he had had of the girl, in Tolomo’s drinking-hell—Moira, he had thought then, for an incredible instant. Yes, she had been like Moira. If the paths of destiny had led elsewhere than to the Black Forest of Ganymede, the result might have been far distant. He would not be dying here alone, horribly alone. Moira—Paula—

They were the same, somehow. And Garth knew he had to keep going, till he had saved Paula Trent. A little time—a few moments more, to keep the Zarno in check.

He and Moira had been cheated of their lives, their futures in some way he could not quite understand. But there remained Paula. She must not die. She and the others must get through.

“Ed.”

Garth’s heart answered that soundless call. His lips formed the name Moira.

She was there, beside him, and he did not question, did not even wonder. It was enough that she had come back. Her brown ringlets curled about the pale face as he remembered, and the blue eyes held love and—something more.

A message.

“What is it, Moira? What—” He reached out hungry arms.

“Ed. It isn’t only us. It’s Earth. Don’t stop now, Ed. A few more minutes to hold the Zarno back; that will be enough. Be strong. A little time more—such a little time, and then you can rest.”

A phantom born of his delirium, Garth knew, but she was no less real for that. He tried to speak and failed. His chest constricted with pain. Outside the altar, the Zarno were stirring uneasily.

“I—I can’t—”

“You must.”

Anger swept through him. “Why? We’ve been cheated of everything, Moira! Our heritage—”

She smiled at him, very tenderly. “The grass is still green on the hills of Earth, my lover. Have you forgotten? The little streams that go laughing down the valleys, and the ocean surging up to the white beaches? There are still sunsets on Earth, and men and women will see them for ages to come. Men who might have been our sons; women who might have been our daughters. And they are our children, Ed, as surely as though we had given them birth. For we are giving them life. There will be a future for mankind because of us. We have given up our own lives that our children may live, and go on to glories we can never know ourselves. It is Earth that needs your help now—and that is something greater than either of us.”

Something greater. …

The Zarno were beginning to move forward, and some of them were sidling toward the passage. Garth, gasping for breath, summoned all his reserve energy. He seemed to feel Moira’s cool hand on his shoulder, silently urging him on.

Something greater—

“The days of man are but as grass,” he croaked, and the amplified sound went thundering through the temple, halting the Zarno where they stood. They turned again to the altar.

“For he flourisheth as a flower of the field … for as soon as the wind goeth over, it is gone—”

He held them, somehow, knowing that Moira stood beside him. Toward the end, Garth was no longer conscious of his surroundings. The Zarno swam before his eyes, changing, altering, and abruptly they vanished. In their place was—was—

He saw Earth, as he remembered it, the loveliest planet of all. He saw the heartbreaking beauty of flaming sunsets over the emerald seas, and the snowy purity of high peaks lifting above baking deserts. He felt the cold blast of Earthwinds on his cheeks, the stinging, exciting chill of mountain streams against his skin. There was the warm smell of hay, golden in the fields; the sharpness of eucalyptus and pine; the breath of the little bright flowers that grow only on Earth.

He heard the voices of Earth. The chuckling of brooks, and the deep shouting of the gale; the lowing of cattle, the sound of leaves rustling, and the crash of angry breakers. The soul of Earth spoke to the man who would never see it again.

He listened, while he chanted the majestic, rolling syllables that kept the Zarno in check. Beside him was Moira. Beneath him, his own world, green and beautiful.

And across the emerald planet men and women came marching, sunlight making a golden path for them as they moved out of darkness into the unknown brightness of the future. They were like gods, great-limbed, lovely, and with eyes fearless as a falcon’s filled with laughter.

Before their marching feet the road of the ages unrolled. Mighty cities reared to the blue skies of Earth, and ships swept out beyond the stars, binding the galaxies and the universe with unbreakable chains of life. Outward and ever outward the circles of humanity and civilization rippled.

Men and women like gods, unafraid, knowing a life greater than ever before—

And they turned questioning eyes on Garth, asking him the question on which their existence depended.

“Will you save us? Will you give us life? Will you give us the future you yourself can never know?”

Garth answered them in his own way, with Moira beside him. For now it did not matter that he was dying; he had found something greater than he had ever known before.

Through the temple his voice rang like brazen trumpets.

“—the wind bloweth … and the place thereof shall know it no more. …”

A panel in the wall by his head lit up, making a square of brightness. He strained his eyes at it, discerning a picture. A scanner of some sort. It showed a transparent ovoid slanting up through the black trees of the forest, a ship with Doc Willard at the controls and eleven men and a girl in the vessel with him—a girl with red-gold hair, going back to Earth, with the knowledge that would save a world from destruction.

He had not failed.

The picture on the scanner darkened. The burning ache in Garth’s lungs grew worse. If he could breathe—

On the dais, the robot swayed, its metal legs giving beneath its weight. The crash of its fall brought the Zarno to their feet, frozen with amazement for a moment. Then they moved forward like a wave.

Garth saw them, dimly, through the vision-slit. A white curtain of pain blotted them out. He was dying; he knew that. The shouts of the Zarno came to him faintly.

“—the wind bloweth … and the place thereof shall know it no more. …”

But in that place the seeds of the future would grow. Once more Garth saw the children of Earth’s unborn generations, and this time the question in their eyes was answered. They would live and go on, to the stars, and beyond.

Moira was beside him. Her cool hand touched his; she came into his arms.

And the white curtain flamed agonizingly for the last time.

Then, mercifully, there was no more pain. Under the black throne Garth’s body lay motionless in its strange tomb.

The Zarnos’ cries filled the temple as they mourned their dead god—but the man who had saved Earth did not hear them.

The Eyes of Thar

He had come back, though he knew what to expect. He had always come back to Klanvahr, since he had been hunted out of that ancient Martian fortress so many years ago. Not often, and always warily, for there was a price on Dantan’s head, and those who governed the Dry Provinces would have been glad to pay it. Now there was an excellent chance that they might pay, and soon, he thought, as he walked doggedly through the baking stillness of the night, his ears attuned to any dangerous sound in the thin, dry air.

Even after dark it was hot here. The dead ground, parched and arid, retained the heat, releasing it slowly as the double moons—the Eyes of Thar, in Klanvahr mythology—swung across the blazing immensity of the sky. Yet Samuel Dantan came back to this desolate land as he had come before, drawn by love and by hatred.

The love was lost forever, but the hate could still be satiated. He had not yet glutted his blood-thirst. When Dantan came back to Klanvahr, men died, though if all the men of the Redhelm Tribe were slain, even that could not satisfy the dull ache in Dantan’s heart.

Now they were hunting him.

The girl—he had not thought of her for years; he did not want to remember. He had been young when it happened. Of Earth stock, he had during a great Martian drought become godson to an old shaman of Klanvahr, one of the priests who still hoarded scraps of the forgotten knowledge of the past, glorious days of Martian destiny, when bright towers had fingered up triumphantly toward the Eyes of Thar.

Memories … the solemn, antique dignity of the Undercities, in ruins now … the wrinkled shaman, intoning his rituals … very old books, and older stories … raids by the Redhelm Tribe … and a girl Samuel Dantan had known. There was a raid, and the girl had died. Such things had happened many times before; they would happen again. But to Dantan this one death mattered very much.

Afterward, Dantan killed, first in red fury, then with a cool, quiet, passionless satisfaction. And, since the Redhelms were well represented in the corrupt Martian government, he had become outlaw.

The girl would not have known him now. He had gone out into the spaceways, and the years had changed him. He was still thin, his eyes still dark and opaque as shadowed tarn-water, but he was dry and sinewy and hard, moving with the trained, dangerous swiftness of the predator he was—and, as to morals, Dantan had none worth mentioning. He had broken more than ten commandments. Between the planets, and in the far-flung worlds bordering the outer dark, there are more than ten. But Dantan had smashed them all.

In the end there was still the dull, sickening hopelessness, part loneliness, part something less definable. Hunted, he came back to Klanvahr, and when he came, men of the Redhelms died. They did not die easily.

But this time it was they who hunted, not he. They had cut him off from the aircar and they followed now like hounds upon his track. He had almost been disarmed in that last battle. And the Redhelms would not lose the trail; they had followed signs for generations across the dying tundras of Mars.

He paused, flattening himself against an outcrop of rock, and looked back. It was dark; the Eyes of Thar had not yet risen, and the blaze of starlight cast a ghastly, leprous shine over the chaotic slope behind him, great riven boulders and jutting monoliths, canyon-like, running jagged toward the horizon, a scene of cosmic ruin that every old and shrinking world must show. He could see nothing of his pursuers, but they were coming. They were still far behind. But that did not matter; he must circle—circle—

And first, he must regain a little strength. There was no water in his canteen. His throat was dust-dry, and his tongue felt swollen and leathery. Moving his shoulders uneasily, his dark face impassive, Dantan found a pebble and put it in his mouth, though he knew that would not help much. He had not tasted water for—how long? Too long, anyhow.

Staring around, he took stock of resources. He was alone—what was it the old shaman had once told him? “You are never alone in Klanvahr. The living shadows of the past are all around you. They cannot help, but they watch, and their pride must not be humbled. You are never alone in Klanvahr.”

But nothing stirred. Only a whisper of the dry, hot wind murmuring up from the distance, sighing and soughing like muted harps. Ghosts of the past riding the night, Dantan thought. How did those ghosts see Klanvahr? Not as this desolate wasteland, perhaps. They saw it with the eyes of memory, as the Mother of Empires which Klanvahr had once been, so long ago that only the tales persisted, garbled and unbelievable.

A sighing whisper … he stopped living for a second, his breath halted, his eyes turned to emptiness. That meant something. A thermal, a river of wind—a downdraft, perhaps. Sometimes these eon-old canyons held lost rivers, changing and shifting their courses as Mars crumbled, and such watercourses might be traced by sound.

Well—he knew Klanvahr.

A half mile farther he found the arroyo, not too deep—fifty feet or less, with jagged walls easy to descend. He could hear the trickle of water, though he could not see it, and his thirst became overpowering. But caution made him clamber down the precipice warily. He did not drink till he had reconnoitered and made sure that it was safe.

And that made Dantan’s thin lips curl. Safety for a man hunted by the Redhelms? The thought was sufficiently absurd. He would die—he must die; but he did not mean to die alone. This time perhaps they had him, but the kill would not be easy nor without cost. If he could find some weapon, some ambush—prepare some trap for the hunters—

There might be possibilities in this canyon. The stream had only lately been diverted into this channel; the signs of that were clear. Thoughtfully Dantan worked his way upstream. He did not try to mask his trail by water-tricks; the Redhelms were too wise for that. No, there must be some other answer.

A mile or so farther along he found the reason for the diverted stream. Landslide. Where water had chuckled and rustled along the left-hand branch before, now it took the other route. Dantan followed the dry canyon, finding the going easier now, since Phobos had risen … an Eye of Thar. “The Eyes of the god miss nothing. They move across the world, and nothing can hide from Thar, or from his destiny.”

Then Dantan saw rounded metal. Washed clean by the water that had run here lately, a corroded, curved surface rose dome-shaped from the stream bed.

The presence of an artifact in this place was curious enough. The people of Klanvahr—the old race—had builded with some substance that had not survived; plastic or something else that was not metal. Yet this dome had the unmistakable dull sheen of steel. It was an alloy, unusually strong or it could never have lasted this long, even though protected by its covering of rocks and earth. A little nerve began jumping in Dantan’s cheek. He had paused briefly, but now he came forward and with his booted foot kicked away some of the dirt about the cryptic metal.

A curving line broke it. Scraping vigorously, Dantan discovered that this marked the outline of an oval door, horizontal, and with a handle of some sort, though it was caked and fixed in its socket with dirt. Dantan’s lips were very thin now, and his eyes glittering and bright. An ambush—a weapon against the Redhelms—whatever might exist behind this lost door, it was worth investigating, especially for a condemned man.

With water from the brook and a sliver of sharp stone, he pried and chiseled until the handle was fairly free from its heavy crust. It was a hook, like a shepherd’s crook, protruding from a small bowl-shaped depression in the door. Dantan tested it. It would not move in any direction. He braced himself, legs straddled, body half doubled, and strained at the hook.

Blood beat against the back of his eyes. He heard drumming in his temples and straightened suddenly, thinking it the footsteps of Redhelms. Then, grinning sardonically, he bent to his work again, and this time the handle moved.

Beneath him the door slid down and swung aside, and the darkness below gave place to soft light. He saw a long tube stretching down vertically, with pegs protruding from the metal walls at regular intervals. It made a ladder. The bottom of the shaft was thirty feet below; its diameter was little more than the breadth of a big man’s shoulders.

He stood still for a moment, looking down, his mind almost swimming with wonder and surmise. Old, very old it must be, for the stream had cut its own bed out of the rock whose walls rose above him now. Old—and yet these metal surfaces gleamed as brightly as they must have gleamed on the day they were put together—for what purpose?

The wind sighed again down the canyon, and Dantan remembered the Redhelms on his track. He looked around once more and then lowered himself onto the ladder of metal pegs, testing them doubtfully before he let his full weight come down. They held.

There might be danger down below; there might not. There was certain danger coming after him among the twisting canyons. He reached up, investigated briefly, and swung the door back into place. There was a lock, he saw, and after a moment discovered how to manipulate it. So far, the results were satisfactory. He was temporarily safe from the Redhelms, provided he did not suffocate. There was no air intake here that he could see, but he breathed easily enough so far. He would worry about that when the need arose. There might be other things to worry about before lack of air began to distress him.

He descended.

At the bottom of the shaft was another door. Its handle yielded with no resistance this time, and Dantan stepped across the threshold into a large, square underground chamber, lit with pale radiance that came from the floor itself, as though light had been poured into the molten metal when it had first been made.

The room—

Faintly he heard a distant humming, like the after-resonance of a bell, but it died away almost instantly. The room was large, and empty except for some sort of machine standing against the farther wall. Dantan was not a technician. He knew guns and ships; that was enough. But the smooth, sleek functionalism of this machine gave him an almost sensuous feeling of pleasure.

How long had it been here? Who had built it? And for what purpose? He could not even guess. There was a great oval screen on the wall above what seemed to be a control board, and there were other, more enigmatic devices.

And the screen was black—dead black, with a darkness that ate up the light in the room and gave back nothing.

Yet there was something—

“Sanfel,” a voice said. “Sanfel. Coth dr’gchang. Sanfel—sthan!

“Sanfel … Sanfel … have you returned, Sanfel? Answer!”

It was a woman’s voice … the voice of a woman used to wielding power, quiet, somehow proud as the voice of Lucifer or Lilith might have been, and it spoke in a tongue that scarcely half a dozen living men could understand. … A whole great race had spoken it once; only the shamans remembered now, and the shamans who knew it were few. Dantan’s godfather had been one. And Dantan remembered the slurring syllables of the rituals he had learned, well enough to know what the proud, bodiless voice was saying.

The nape of his neck prickled. Here was something he could not understand, and he did not like it. Like an animal scenting danger he shrank into himself, not crouching, but withdrawing, so that a smaller man seemed to stand there, ready and waiting for the next move. Only his eyes were not motionless. They raked the room for the unseen speaker—for some weapon to use when the time came for weapons.

His glance came back to the dark screen above the machine. And the voice said again, in the tongue of ancient Klanvahr:

“I am not used to waiting, Sanfel! If you hear me, speak. And speak quickly, for the time of peril comes close now. My Enemy is strong—”

Dantan said, “Can you hear me?” His eyes did not move from the screen.

Out of that blackness the girl’s voice came, after a pause. It was imperious, and a little wary.

“You are not Sanfel. Where is he? Who are you, Martian?”

Dantan let himself relax a little. There would be a parley, at any rate. But after that—

Words in the familiar, remembered old language came hesitantly to his lips.

“I am no Martian. I am of Earth blood, and I do not know this Sanfel.”

“Then how did you get into Sanfel’s place?” The voice was haughty now. “What are you doing there? Sanfel built his laboratory in a secret place.”

“It was hidden well enough,” Dantan told her grimly. “Maybe for a thousand years, or even ten thousand, for all I know. The door has been buried under a stream—”

“There is no water there. Sanfel’s home is on a mountain, and his laboratory is built underground.” The voice rang like a bell. “I think you lie. I think you are an enemy—When I heard the signal summoning me, I came swiftly, wondering why Sanfel had delayed so long. I must find him, stranger. I must! If you are no enemy, bring me Sanfel!” This time there was something almost like panic in the voice.

“If I could, I would,” Dantan said. “But there’s no one here except me.” He hesitated, wondering if the woman behind the voice could be—mad? Speaking from some mysterious place beyond the screen, in a language dead a thousand years, calling upon a man who must be long-dead too, if one could judge by the length of time this hidden room had lain buried.

He said after a moment, “This place has been buried for a long time. And—no one has spoken the tongue of Klanvahr for many centuries. If that was your Sanfel’s language—” But he could not go on with that thought. If Sanfel had spoken Klanvahr then he must have died long ago. And the speaker beyond the screen—she who had known Sanfel, yet spoke in a young, sweet, light voice that Dantan was beginning to think sounded familiar. … He wondered if he could be mad too.

There was silence from the screen. After many seconds the voice spoke again, sadly and with an undernote of terror.

“I had not realized,” it said, “that even time might be so different between Sanfel’s world and mine. The space-time continua—yes, a day in my world might well be an age in yours. Time is elastic. In Zha I had thought a few dozen—” she used a term Dantan did not understand, “—had passed. But on Mars—centuries?”

“Tens of centuries,” agreed Dantan, staring hard at the screen. “If Sanfel lived in old Klanvahr his people are scarcely a memory now. And Mars is dying. You—you’re speaking from another world?”

“From another universe, yes. A very different universe from yours. It was only through Sanfel that I had made contact, until now—What is your name?”

“Dantan. Samuel Dantan.”

“Not a Martian name. You are from—Earth, you say? What is that?”

“Another planet. Nearer the sun than Mars.”

“We have no planets and no suns in Zha. This is a different universe indeed. So different I find it hard to imagine what your world must be like.” The voice died.

And it was a voice he knew. Dantan was nearly sure of that now, and the certainty frightened him. When a man in the Martian desert begins to see or hear impossibilities, he has reason to be frightened. As the silence prolonged itself he began almost to hope that the voice—the implausibly familiar voice—had been only imagination. Hesitantly he said, “Are you still there?” and was a little relieved, after all, to hear her say,

“Yes, I am here. I was thinking. … I need help. I need it desperately. I wonder—has Sanfel’s laboratory changed? Does the machine still stand? But it must, or I could not speak to you now. If the other things work, there may be chance. … Listen.” Her voice grew urgent. “I may have a use for you. Do you see a lever, scarlet, marked with the Klanvahr symbol for ‘sight’?”

“I see it,” Dantan said.

“Push it forward. There is no harm in that, if you are careful. We can see each other—that is all. But do not touch the lever with the ‘door’ symbol on it. Be certain of that. … Wait!” Sudden urgency was in the voice.

“Yes?” Dantan had not moved.

“I am forgetting. There is danger if you are not protected from—from certain vibration that you might see here. This is a different universe, and your Martian physical laws do not hold good between our worlds. Vibration … light … other things might harm you. There should be armor in Sanfel’s laboratory. Find it.”

Dantan glanced around. There was a cabinet in one corner. He went over to it slowly, his eyes wary. He had no intention of relaxing vigilance here simply because that voice sounded familiar. …

Inside the cabinet hung a suit of something like space armor, more flexible and skin tight than any he had ever seen, and with a transparent helmet through which vision seemed oddly distorted. He got into the suit carefully, pulling up the rich shining folds over his body, thinking strangely how long time had stood still in this small room since the last time a man had worn it. The whole room looked slightly different when he set the helmet into place. It must be polarized, he decided, though that alone could not account for the strange dimming and warping of vision that was evident.

“All ready,” he said after a moment.

“Then throw the switch.”

With his hand upon it Dantan hesitated for one last instant of wariness. He was stepping into unknown territory now, and to him the unknown meant the perilous. His mind went back briefly to the Redhelms scouring the canyons above for him. He quieted his uneasy mind with the thought that there might be some weapon in the world of the voice which he could turn against them later. Certainly, without a weapon, he had little to lose. But he knew that weapon or no weapon, danger or not, he must see the face behind that sweet, familiar, imperious voice.

He pressed the lever forward. It hesitated, the weight of milleniums behind its inertia. Then, groaning a little in its socket, it moved.

Across the screen above it a blaze of color raged like a sudden shining deluge. Blinded by the glare, Dantan leaped back and swung an arm across his eyes.

When he looked again the colors had cleared. Blinking, he stared—and forgot to look away. For the screen was a window now, with the world of Zha behind it. … And in the center of that window—a girl. He looked once at her, and then closed his eyes. He had felt his heart move, and a nerve jumped in his lean cheek.

He whispered a name.

Impassively the girl looked down at him from the screen. There was no change, no light of recognition upon that familiar, beloved face. The face of the girl who had died at the Redhelm hands, long ago, in the fortress of Klanvahr. … For her sake he had hunted the Redhelms all these dangerous years. For her sake he had taken to the spaceways and the outlaw life. In a way, for her sake the Redhelms hunted him now through the canyons overhead. But here in the screen, she did not know him.

He knew that this was not possible. Some outrageous trick of vision made the face and the slender body of a woman from another universe seem the counterpart of that remembered woman. But he knew it must be an illusion, for in a world as different as Zha surely there could be no human creatures at all, certainly no human who wore the same face as the girl he remembered.

Aside from the girl herself, there was nothing to see. The screen was blank, except for vague shapes—outlines—The helmet, he thought, filtered out more than light. He sensed, somehow, that beyond her stretched the world of Zha, but he could see nothing except the shifting, ever-changing colors of the background.

She looked down at him without expression. Obviously the sight of him had wakened in her no such deep-reaching echoes of emotion as her face woke in him. She said, her voice almost unbearably familiar; a voice sounding from the silence of death over many chilly years,

“Dantan. Samuel Dantan. Earthly language is as harsh as the Klanvahr I learned from Sanfel. Yet my name may seem strange to you. I am Quiana.”

He said hoarsely, “What do you want? What did you want with Sanfel?”

“Help,” Quiana said. “A weapon. Sanfel had promised me a weapon. He was working very hard to make one, risking much … and now time has eaten him up—that strange, capricious time that varies so much between your world and mine. To me it was only yesterday—and I still need the weapon.”

Dantan’s laugh was harsh with jealousy of that unknown and long-dead Martian.

“Then I’m the wrong man,” he said roughly. “I’ve no weapon. I’ve men tracking me down to kill me, now.”

She leaned forward a little, gesturing.

“Can you escape? You are hidden here, you know.”

“They’ll find the same way I found, up above.”

“The laboratory door can be locked, at the top of the shaft.”

“I know. I locked it. But there’s no food or water here. … No, if I had any weapons I wouldn’t be here now.”

“Would you not?” she asked in a curious voice. “In old Klanvahr, Sanfel once told me, they had a saying that none could hide from his destiny.”

Dantan gave her a keen, inquiring look. Did she mean—herself? That same face and voice and body, so cruelly come back from death to waken the old grief anew? Or did she know whose likeness she wore—or could it be only his imagination, after all? For if Sanfel had known her too, and if Sanfel had died as long ago as he must have died, then this same lovely image had lived centuries and milleniums before the girl at Klanvahr Fortress. …

“I remember,” said Dantan briefly.

“My world,” she went on, oblivious to the turmoil in his mind, “my world is too different to offer you any shelter, though I suppose you could enter it for a little while, in that protective armor that Sanfel made. But not to stay. We spring from soil too alien to one another’s worlds. … Even this communication is not easy. And there is no safety here in Zha either, now. Now that Sanfel has failed me.”

“I—I’d help you if I could.” He said it with difficulty, trying to force the remembrance upon himself that this was a stranger. … “Tell me what’s wrong.”

She shrugged with a poignantly familiar motion.

“I have an Enemy. One of a lower race. And he—it—there is no word!—has cut me off from my people here in a part of Zha that is—well, dangerous—I can’t describe to you the conditions here. We have no common terms to use in speaking of them. But there is great danger, and the Enemy is coming closer—and I am alone. If there were another of my people here to divide the peril I think I could destroy him. He has a weapon of his own, and it is stronger than my power, though not stronger than the power two of my race together can wield. It—it pulls. It destroys, in a way I can find no word to say. I had hoped from Sanfel something to divert him until he could be killed. I told him how to forge such a weapon, but—time would not let him do it. The teeth of time ground him into dust, as my Enemy’s weapon will grind me soon.”

She shrugged again.

“If I could get you a gun,” Dantan said. “A force-ray—”

“What are they?”

He described the weapons of his day. But Quiana’s smile was a little scornful when he finished.

“We of Zha have passed beyond the use of missile weapons—even such missiles as bullets or rays. Nor could they touch my Enemy. No, we can destroy in ways that require no—no beams or explosives. No, Dantan, you speak in terms of your own universe. We have no common ground. It is a pity that time eddied between Sanfel and me, but eddy it did, and I am helpless now. And the Enemy will be upon me soon. Very soon.”

She let her shoulders sag and resignation dimmed the remembered vividness of her face. Dantan looked up at her grimly, muscles riding his set jaw. It was almost intolerable, this facing her again in need, and again helpless, and himself without power to aid. It had been bad enough that first time, to learn long afterward that she had died at enemy hands while he was too far away to protect her. But to see it all take place again before his very eyes!

“There must be a way,” he said, and his hand gripped the lever marked “door” in the ancient tongue.

“Wait!” Quiana’s voice was urgent.

“What would happen?”

“The door would open. I could enter your world, and you mine.”

“Why can’t you leave, then, and wait until it’s safe to go back?”

“I have tried that,” Quiana said. “It will never be safe. The Enemy waited too. No, it must come, in the end, to a battle—and I shall not win that fight. I shall not see my own people or my own land again, and I suppose I must face that knowledge. But I did hope, when I heard Sanfel’s signal sound again. …” She smiled a little. “I know you would help me if you could, Dantan. But there is nothing to be done now.”

“I’ll come in,” he said doggedly. “Maybe there’s something I could do.”

“You could not touch him. Even now there’s danger. He was very close when I heard that signal. This is his territory. When I heard the bell and thought Sanfel had returned with a weapon for me, I dared greatly in coming here.” Her voice died away; a withdrawn look veiled her eyes from him.

After a long silence she said, “The Enemy is coming. Turn off the screen, Dantan. And goodbye.”

“No,” he said. “Wait!” But she shook her head and turned away from him, her thin robe swirling, and moved off like a pale shadow into the dim, shadowless emptiness of the background. He stood watching helplessly, feeling all the old despair wash over him a second time as the girl he loved went alone into danger he could not share. Sometimes as she moved away she was eclipsed by objects he could not see—trees, he thought, or rocks, that did not impinge upon his eyes through the protective helmet. A strange world indeed Zha must be, whose very rocks and trees were too alien for human eyes to look upon in safety. … Only Quiana grew smaller and smaller upon the screen, and it seemed to Dantan as though a cord stretched between them, pulling thinner and thinner as she receded into danger and distance.

It was unbearable to think that the cord might break—break a second time. …

Far away something moved in the cloudy world of Zha. Tiny in the distance though it was, it was unmistakably not human. Dantan lost sight of Quiana. Had she found some hiding place behind some unimaginable outcropping of Zha’s terrain?

The Enemy came forward.

It was huge and scaled and terrible, human, but not a human; tailed, but no beast; intelligent, but diabolic. He never saw it too clearly, and he was grateful to his helmet for that. The polarized glass seemed to translate a little, as well as to blot out. He felt sure that this creature which he saw—or almost saw—did not look precisely as it seemed to him upon the screen. Yet it was easy to believe that such a being had sprung from the alien soil of Zha. There was nothing remotely like it on any of the worlds he knew. And it was hateful. Every line of it made his hackles bristle.

It carried a coil of brightly colored tubing slung over one grotesque shoulder, and its monstrous head swung from side to side as it paced forward into the screen like some strange and terrible mechanical toy. It made no sound, and its progress was horrible in its sheer relentless monotony.

Abruptly it paused. He thought it had sensed the girl’s presence, somewhere in hiding. It reached for the coil of tubing with one malformed—hand?

“Quiana,” it said—its voice as gentle as a child’s.

Silence. Dantan’s breathing was loud in the emptiness.

“Quiana?” The tone was querulous now.

“Quiana,” the monster crooned, and swung about with sudden, unexpected agility. Moving with smooth speed, it vanished into the clouds of the background, as the girl had vanished. For an eternity Dantan watched colored emptiness, trying to keep himself from trembling.

Then he heard the voice again, gentle no longer, but ringing like a bell with terrible triumph, “Quiana!”

And out of the swirling clouds he saw Quiana break, despair upon her face, her sheer garments streaming behind her. After her came the Enemy. It had unslung the tube it wore over its shoulder, and as it lifted the weapon Quiana swerved desperately aside. Then from the coil of tubing blind lightning ravened.

Shattering the patternless obscurity, the blaze of its color burst out, catching Quiana in a cone of expanding, shifting brilliance. And the despair in her eyes was suddenly more than Dantan could endure.

His hand struck out at the lever marked “door”; he swung it far over and the veil that had masked the screen was gone. He vaulted up over its low threshold, not seeing anything but the face and the terror of Quiana. But it was not Quiana’s name he called as he leaped.

He lunged through the Door onto soft, yielding substance that was unlike anything he had ever felt underfoot before. He scarcely knew it. He flung himself forward, fists clenched, ready to drive futile blows into the monstrous mask of the Enemy. It loomed over him like a tower, tremendous, scarcely seen through the shelter of his helmet—and then the glare of the light-cone caught him.

It was tangible light. It flung him back with a piledriver punch that knocked the breath from his body. And the blow was psychic as well as physical. Shaking and reeling from the shock, Dantan shut his eyes and fought forward, as though against a steady current too strong to breast very long. He felt Quiana beside him, caught in the same dreadful stream. And beyond the source of the light the Enemy stood up in stark, inhuman silhouette.

He never saw Quiana’s world. The light was too blinding. And yet, in a subtle sense, it was not blinding to the eyes, but to the mind. Nor was it light, Dantan thought, with some sane part of his mind. Too late he remembered Quiana’s warning that the world of Zha was not Mars or Earth, that in Zha even light was different.

Cold and heat mingled, indescribably bewildering, shook him hard. And beyond these were—other things. The light from the Enemy’s weapon was not born in Dantan’s universe, and it had properties that light should not have. He felt bare, emptied, a hollow shell through which radiance streamed.

For suddenly, every cell of his body was an eye. The glaring brilliance, the intolerable vision beat at the foundations of his sanity. Through him the glow went pouring, washing him, nerves, bone, flesh, brain, in floods of color that were not color, sound that was not sound, vibration that was spawned in the shaking hells of worlds beyond imagination.

It inundated him like a tide, and for a long, long, timeless while he stood helpless in its surge, moving within his body and without it, and within his mind and soul as well. The color of stars thundered in his brain. The crawling foulness of unspeakable hues writhed along his nerves so monstrously that he felt he could never cleanse himself of that obscenity.

And nothing else existed—only the light that was not light, but blasphemy.

Then it began to ebb … faded … grew lesser and lesser, until—Beside him he could see Quiana now. She was no longer stumbling in the cone of light, no longer shuddering and wavering in its violence, but standing erect and facing the Enemy, and from her eyes—something—poured.

Steadily the cone of brilliance waned. But still its glittering, shining foulness poured through Dantan. He felt himself weakening, his senses fading, as the tide of dark horror mounted through his brain.

And covered him up with its blanketing immensity.

He was back in the laboratory, leaning against the wall and breathing in deep, shuddering draughts. He did not remember stumbling through the Door again, but he was no longer in Zha. Quiana stood beside him, here upon the Martian soil of the laboratory. She was watching him with a strange, quizzical look in her eyes as he slowly fought back to normal, his heart quieting by degrees, his breath becoming evener. He felt drained, exhausted, his emotions cleansed and purified as though by baths of flame.

Presently he reached for the clasp that fastened his clumsy armor. Quiana put out a quick hand, shaking her head.

“No,” she said, and then stared at him again for a long moment without speaking. Finally, “I had not known—I did not think this could be done. Another of my own race—yes. But you, from Mars—I would not have believed that you could stand against the Enemy for a moment, even with your armor.”

“I’m from Earth, not Mars. And I didn’t stand long.”

“Long enough.” She smiled faintly. “You see now what happened? We of Zha can destroy without weapons, using only the power inherent in our bodies. Those like the Enemy have a little of that power too, but they need mechanical devices to amplify it. And so when you diverted the Enemy’s attention and forced him to divide his attack between us—the pressure upon me was relieved, and I could destroy him. But I would not have believed it possible.”

“You’re safe now,” Dantan said, with no expression in voice or face.

“Yes. I can return.”

“And you will?”

“Of course I shall.”

“We are more alike than you had realized.”

She looked up toward the colored curtain of the screen. “That is true. It is not the complete truth, Dantan.”

He said, “I love you—Quiana.” This time he called her by name.

Neither of them moved. Minutes went by silently.

Quiana said, as if she had not heard him, “Those who followed you are here. I have been listening to them for some time now. They are trying to break through the door at the top of the shaft.”

He took her hand in his gloved grasp. “Stay here. Or let me go back to Zha with you. Why not?”

“You could not live there without your armor.”

“Then stay.”

Quiana looked away, her eyes troubled. As Dantan moved to slip off his helmet her hand came up again to stop him.

“Don’t.”

“Why not?”

For answer she rose, beckoning for him to follow. She stepped across the threshold into the shaft and swiftly began to climb the pegs toward the surface and the hammering of the Redhelms up above. Dantan, at her gesture, followed.

Over her shoulder she said briefly,

“We are of two very different worlds. Watch—but be careful.” And she touched the device that locked the oval door.

It slipped down and swung aside.

Dantan caught one swift glimpse of Redhelm heads dodging back to safety. They did not know, of course, that he was unarmed. He reached up desperately, trying to pull Quiana back but she slipped aside and sprang lightly out of the shaft into the cool gray light of the Martian morning.

Forgetting her warning, Dantan pulled himself up behind her. But as his head and shoulders emerged from the shaft he stopped, frozen. For the Redhelms were falling. There was no mark upon them, yet they fell. …

She did not stir, even when the last man had stiffened into rigid immobility. Then Dantan clambered up and without looking at Quiana went to the nearest body and turned it over. He could find no mark. Yet the Redhelm was dead.

“That is why you had to wear the armor,” she told him gently. “We are of different worlds, you and I.”

He took her in his arms—and the soft resilience of her was lost against the stiffness of the protective suit. He would never even know how her body felt, because of the armor between them. … He could not even kiss her—again. He had taken his last kiss of the mouth so like Quiana’s mouth, long years ago, and he would never kiss it again. The barrier was too high between them.

“You can’t go back,” he told her in a rough, uneven voice. “We are of the same world, no matter what—no matter how—You’re no stranger to me, Quiana!”

She looked up at him with troubled eyes, shaking her head, regret in her voice.

“Do you think I don’t know why you fought for me, Dantan?” she asked in a clear voice. “Did you ever stop to wonder why Sanfel risked so much for me, too?”

He stared down at her, his brain spinning, almost afraid to hear what she would say next. He did not want to hear. But her voice went on inexorably.

“I cheated you, Dantan. I cheated Sanfel yesterday—a thousand years ago. My need was very great, you see—and our ways are not yours. I knew that no man would fight for a stranger as I needed a man to fight for me.”

He held her tightly in gloved hands that could feel only a firm body in their grasp, not what that body was really like, nothing about it except its firmness. He caught his breath to interrupt, but she went on with a rush.

“I have no way of knowing how you see me, Dantan,” she said relentlessly. “I don’t know how Sanfel saw me. To each of you—because I needed your help—I wore the shape to which you owed help most. I could reach into your minds deeply enough for that—to mould a remembered body for your eyes. My own shape is—different. You will never know it.” She sighed. “You were a brave man, Dantan. Braver and stronger than I ever dreamed an alien could be. I wish—I wonder—Oh, let me go! Let me go!”

She whirled out of his grasp with sudden vehemence, turning her face away so that he could not see her eyes. Without glancing at him again she bent over the shaft and found the topmost pegs, and in a moment was gone.

Dantan stood there, waiting. Presently he heard the muffled humming of a muted bell, as though sounding from another world. Then he knew that there was no one in the ancient laboratory beneath his feet.

He shut the door carefully and scraped soil over it. He did not mark the place. The dim red spot of the sun was rising above the canyon wall. His face set, Dantan began walking toward the distant cavern where his aircar was hidden. It was many miles away, but there was no one to stop him, now.

He did not look back.

What Hath Me?

I

The man running through the forest gloom breathed in hot, panting gusts, pain tearing at his chest. Underfoot the crawling, pale network of tree-trunks lay flat upon the ground, and more than once he tripped over a slippery bole and crashed down, but he was up again instantly.

He had no breath to scream. He sobbed as he ran, his burning eyes trying to pierce the shadows. Whispers rustled down from above. When the leaf-ceiling parted, a blaze of terribly bright stars flamed in the jet sky. It was cold and dark, and the man knew that he was not on Earth.

They were following him, even here.

A squat yellow figure, huge-eyed, inhuman, loomed in his path—one of the swamp people of Southern Venus. The man swung a wild blow at the thing, and his fist found nothing. It had vanished. But beyond it rose a single-legged giant, a Martian, bellowing the great, gusty laughter of the Redland Tribes. The man dodged, stumbled, and smashed down heavily. He heard paddling footsteps and tried, with horrible intensity of purpose, to rise. He could not.

The Martian crept toward him—but it was no longer a Martian. An Earthman, with the face of some obscene devil, came forward with a sidling, slow motion. Horns sprouted from the low forehead. The teeth were fangs. As the creature came nearer, it raised its hands—twisted, gnarled talons—and slid them about the man’s throat.

Through the forest thundered the deep, booming clangor of a brass gong. The sound shattered the phantom as a hammer shatters glass. Instantly the man was alone.

Making hoarse, animal sounds in his throat, he staggered upright and lurched in the direction from which the sound came. But he was too weak. Presently he fell, and this time he did not rise. His arms moved a little and then were still. He slept, lines of tortured weariness twisting the haggard face.

Very faintly, from infinite distances, he heard a voice … two voices. Inhuman. Alien—and yet with a warmth of vital urgency that stirred something deep within him.

“He has passed our testing.”

Then a stronger, more powerful voice—answering.

“Others have passed our testing—but the Aesir slew them.”

“There is no other way. In this man I sensed something—a little different. He can hate—he has hated.”

“He will need more than hatred—” the deeper voice said. “Even with us to aid him. And there is little time. Strip his memories from him now, so that he may not be weakened by them—”

“May the gods fight with him.”

“But he fights the gods. The only gods men know in these evil days—”

The man awakened.

Triphammers beat ringingly inside his skull. He opened his eyes and closed them quickly against the sullen red glow that beat down from above. He lay motionless, gathering his strength.

What had happened?

He didn’t know. The jolting impact of that realization struck him violently. He felt a brief panic of disorientation. Where—?

I’m Derek Stuart, he thought. At least it isn’t complete amnesia. I know who I am. But not where I am.

This time when he opened his eyes they stayed open. Overhead a broad-leafed tree arched. Through its branches he could see a dark, starry sky, the glowing, ringed disc of Saturn very far away, and a deeply scarlet glow.

Not Earth, then. A Saturnian moon? No, Saturn didn’t eclipse most of the sky. Perhaps the asteroid belt.

He moved his head a little, and saw the red moon.

Aesir!

The message rippled along his nerves into his brain. Stuart reacted instantly. His hard, strong body writhed, whipped over, and then he was in a half-crouch, one hand flashing to his belt while his eyes searched the empty silence of the forest around him. There was no sound, no movement.

Sweat stood on Stuart’s forehead, and he brushed it away impatiently. His deeply-tanned face set into harsh lines of curiously hopeless desperation. There was no blaster gun at his belt; that didn’t matter. Guns couldn’t help him now—on Asgard.

The red moon had told him the answer. Only one world in the System had a red moon, and men didn’t go to that artificial asteroid willingly. They went, yes—but only to be doomed and damned. From Venus to Callisto spacemen spoke of Asgard in hushed voices—Asgard where the Aesir lived and ruled the worlds of Man.

No spaceships left Asgard, except the sleek black cruisers manned by the priests of Aesir. No man had ever returned from Asgard.

Stuart grinned mirthlessly. He’d learned a lesson, though he’d never profit by it now. Always before he’d been confident of his ability to outdrink anyone of his own weight and size. And certainly that slight, tired-eyed man at the Singing Star, in New Boston, should have passed out long before Stuart—under normal circumstances.

So the circumstances hadn’t been quite normal. It was a frame. A beautiful, airtight frame, because he’d never come back to squawk. Nobody came back from Asgard.

He shivered a little and looked up warily. There were legends, of course. The Watchers who patrolled the asteroid ceaselessly—robots, men said. They served the Aesir. As, in a way, all men served the Aesir.

No sound. No movement. Only the sullen crimson light beating down ominously from that dark sky.

Stuart took stock of his clothing. Regular leatheroid spaceman’s rig; they’d left him that, anyway. Whoever they were. He couldn’t remember anything that had happened after the fifth drink with the tired-eyed man. There was a very faint recollection of running somewhere—seeing unpleasant things—and hearing two oddly unreal voices. But the memories slipped away and vanished as he tried to focus on them.

The hell with it. He was on Asgard. And that meant—something rather more unpleasant than death, if the legends were to be believed. A very suitable climax to an unorthodox life, in this era when obedience and law enforcement were the rigid rule.

Stuart picked up a heavy branch that might serve as a club. Then, shrugging, he turned westward, striking at random through the forest. No use waiting here till the Watchers came. At least—he could fight, as he had always fought as far back as he could remember.

There wasn’t much room for fighters any more. Not under the Aesir rule. There were nations and kings and presidents, of course, but they were puppet figures, never daring to disobey any edicts that came from the mystery-shrouded asteroid hanging off the orbit of Mars, the tiny, artificial world that had ruled the System for a thousand years.

The Aesir. The inhuman, cryptic beings who—if legend were true—once had been human. Stuart scowled, trying to remember.

An—an entropic accelerator, that was it. A device, a method that speeded up evolution tremendously. That had been the start of the tyranny. A machine that could accelerate a man’s evolution by a million years—

Some had used that method. Those were the ones who had become the Aesir, creatures so far advanced in the evolutionary scale that they were no longer remotely human. Much was lost in the mists of the past. But Stuart could recall that much—the knowledge that the Aesir had once been human, that they were human no longer, and that for a thousand years they had ruled the System, very terribly, from their forbidden asteroid that they named Asgard—home of the legendary Norse gods.

Maybe the tired-eyed man had been an Aesir priest, collecting victims. Certainly no others would have dared to land a ship on Asgard. Stuart swung on, searching the empty skies, and now a queer, unreasoning excitement began to grow within him. At least, before he died, he’d learn what the Aesir were like. It probably wouldn’t be pleasant knowledge, but there’d be some satisfaction in it. And there’d be even more satisfaction if he thought he had a chance of smashing a hard fist into the face of one of the Aesir priests—or even—

Hell, why not? He had nothing to lose now. From the moment he had touched Asgard soil, he was damned anyway. But of one thing Stuart was certain; he wouldn’t be led like a helpless sheep to the throat-cutting. He wouldn’t die without fighting against them.

The forest thinned before him. There was a flicker of swift motion far ahead. Stuart froze, his grip tightening on the cudgel, his eyes searching.

Between the columnar trees, bright amid the purple shadows, a glitter of sparkling nebulae swept. A web of light, Stuart thought—so dazzling his eyes ached as he stared at the—the thing.

Bodiless, intangible, the shifting net of stars poised, high above his head. Hundreds of twinkling, glittering pinpoints flickered there, so swiftly it seemed as though an arabesque spiderweb of light weaved in the still, dark air—web of the Norns!

Each flickering star-fleck—watched. Each was an eye.

And as the thing poised, a horrible, half-human hesitancy in its stillness, a deep, humming note sounded, from its starry heart.

Star-points shook and quivered to the sound. Again it came—deeper, more menacing.

Questioning!

Was this one of the—Watchers? Was this one of them?

Abruptly its hesitancy vanished; it swept down upon Stuart. Instinctively he swung his cudgel in a smashing blow that sent him reeling forward—for there was no resistance. The star-creature was as intangible as air.

And yet it was not. The dazzling web of light enfolded him like a blazing cloak. Instantly a cold, trembling horror crawled along his skin. Bodiless the thing might be—but it was dangerous, infinitely so!

Pressure, shifting, quicksand pressure, was all about him. That stealthy cold crept into his flesh and bones, frigid icicles jabbing into his brain. Gasping with shock, Stuart struck out. He had dropped the club. Now he stooped and groped for it, but he could see nothing except a glittering veil of diamonds that raced like a mad torrent everywhere.

The humming rose again—ominously triumphant.

Cursing, Stuart staggered forward. The star-cloak stayed. He tried to grip it somewhere, to wrench it free, but he could not. The thousands of tiny eyes raced past him, glittering with alien ecstasy, shining brighter and ever brighter as they fed.

He felt the life being sucked out of him. … Deeper stabbed the gelid cold … louder roared that throbbing tone in his ears.

He heard his voice gasping furious, hopeless oaths. His eyes ached with the strain of staring at that blinding glitter. Then—

The heart of the Watcher. Crush the heart!

The words crashed like deep thunder in his brain. Had someone spoken them—? No … for, with the command, had come a message as well. As though a thought had spoken within his mind, a telepathic warning from—where?

His eyes strained at the dazzle. Now he saw that there was a brighter core that did not shift and change when the rest of the star-cloud wove its dreadful net. A spot of light that—

He reached out … the nucleus darted away … he lurched forward, on legs half-frozen, and felt a stone turn under his foot. As he crashed down, his hand closed and tightened on something warm and living that pulsed frantically against his palm.

The humming rose to a shrill scream … frightened … warning.

Stuart tightened his grip. He lay motionless, his eyes closed. But all around him he could feel the icy tendrils of the star-thing lashing at him, drinking his human warmth, probing with avid fingers at his brain.

He felt that warm—core—writhe and try to slip between his fingers. He squeezed. …

The scream burst out, an inhuman agony in its raw-edged keening.

It stopped.

In Stuart’s hand was—nothing.

He opened his eyes. The dazzling glitter of star-points had vanished. Only the forest, with its purple shadows, lay empty and silent around him.

Stuart got up slowly, swallowed dry-throated. The creatures of the Aesir were not invulnerable, then. Not to one who knew their weaknesses.

How had he known?

What voice had spoken in his brain? There had been an odd, impossible familiarity to that—that mental voice, now that he remembered it. Somewhere he had heard it, sensed it before.

That gap in his memory—

He tried to bridge it, but he could not. There was only a quickening of the desire to go on westward. He felt suddenly certain that he would find the Aesir in that direction.

He took a hesitant step—and another. And with each step, a queer, unmotivated confidence poured into him. As though some barrier in his mind had broken down, letting some strange flood of proud defiance rush in.

It was impossible. It was dangerous. But—certainly—no more dangerous than supinely waiting here on Asgard till another Watcher came to destroy him. There were worse things than the starry Watchers here, if legends were to be trusted.

He went on, the curious tide of defiance rising higher and ever higher in his blood. It was a strangely intoxicating sense of—of pure, crazy self-confidence such as no man should rightfully have felt on this haunted asteroid.

He wondered—but the drunkenness was such that he did not wonder much. He did not question.

He thought: To hell with the Aesir!

The forest ended. At his feet a road began, leading off into the purple horizons of the flat plain before him. At the end of that road was a thrusting pillar of light that rose like a tower toward the dark sky.

There were the Aesir. …

II

Every spaceman has an automatic sense of orientation. In ancient days, when clipper ships sailed the seas of Earth, the Yankee skippers knew the decks beneath their feet, and they knew the stars. Southern Cross or Pole Star told them in what latitudes they sailed. In unknown waters, they still had their familiar keels and the familiar stars.

So it is with the spacemen who drift from Pluto to Mercury Darkside, trusting to metal hulls that shut in the air and shut out the vast abysses of interplanetary space. When they work outship, a glance at the sky will tell a trained man where he is—and only tough, trained men survive the dangerous commerce of space. On Mercury the blazing solar corona flames above the horizon; on clouded Venus the green star of Earth shines sometimes. On Io, Callisto, Ganymede, a man can orient himself by the gigantic mother planet—Saturn or Jupiter—and in the Asteroid Belt, there is always the strange procession of little worlds like lanterns, some half-shadowed, others brightly reflecting the Sun’s glare. Anywhere in the System the sky is friendly—

Except on Asgard. Jupiter was too far and too small; Mars was scarcely visible; the Asteroid Belt not much thicker than the Milky Way. The unfamiliar magnitudes of the planets told Stuart, very surely, that he was on unknown territory. He was without the sure, safe anchor that spacemen depend upon, and that lack told him how utterly he stood alone now.

But the unreasoning confidence did not flag. If anything, it mounted stronger within him as he hurried along the road, his rangy legs eating up the miles with easy speed. The sooner he reached his goal, the better he’d like it. Nor did he wish to encounter any more of the Aesir’s guardians—his business was with the Aesir!

The tower of light grew taller as he went on. Now he saw that it was a cluster of buildings, massed cylinders of varying heights, each one gigantic in diameter as well as height, and all shining with that cold, shadowless radiance that apparently came from the stone—or metal—itself. The road led directly to the base of the tallest tower.

It ran between shining pillars—a gateless threshold—and was lost in silvery mists. No bars were needed to keep visitors out of this fortress!

Briefly a cool wind of doubt blew upon Stuart. He hesitated, wishing he had at least his blaster gun. But he was unarmed; he had even left the club back in the forest.

He glanced around.

The red moon was sinking. A heavier darkness was creeping over the land. Very far away he thought he saw the shifting flicker of dancing lights—a Watcher?

He hurried onward.

Cyclopean, the tower loomed above him, like a shining rod poised to strike. His gaze could not pierce the mists beyond the portal.

He stepped forward—between the twin pillars. He walked on blindly into the silver mists.

Twenty steps he took—and paused, as something dark and shapeless swam into view before him. A pit—at his feet.

In the dimness he could not see its bottom, but a narrow bridge crossed the gulf, a little to his left. Stuart crossed the bridge. Solidity was again under his feet.

With shocking suddenness, a great, brazen bellow of laughter roared out. Harsh mockery sharpened it. And it was echoed.

All around Stuart the laughter thundered—and was answered. The walls gave it back and echoed it. The bellowing laughter of gods deafened Stuart.

The mists drifted away—were sucked down into the pit. They vanished.

As though they fled from that evil laughter.

Stuart stood in a chamber that must have occupied the entire base of that enormous tower. Behind him the abyss gaped. Before him a shifting veil of light hid whatever lay behind it. But all around, between monstrous pillars, were set thrones, ebon thrones fifty feet tall.

On the thrones sat giants!

Titan figures, armored in glittering mail, ringed Stuart, and instantly his mind fled back to half-forgotten folklore. … Asgard, Jotunheim, the lands of the giants and the gods. Thor and Odin, sly Loki and Baldur—they were all here, he thought, bearded colossi roaring their black laughter into the shaking air of the hall.

Watching him from their height—

Then he looked up, and the giants were dwarfed.

The chamber was roofless. At least he could see no roof. The pillars climbed up and up tremendously all around the walls that were hung with vast stretches of tapestry, till they dwindled to a pinpoint far above. The sheer magnitude of the tower made Stuart’s mind rock dizzily.

Still the laughter roared out. But now it died. …

Thundered through the hall a voice … deep … resonant … the voice of the Aesir.

“A human, brother!”

“Aye! A human—and a mad one, to come here.”

“To enter the hall of the Aesir.”

A red-bearded colossus bent down, his glacial blue eyes staring at Stuart. “Shall I crush him?”

Stuart sprang back as an immense hand swooped down like a falling tree upon him. Instinctively his hand flashed to his belt, and suddenly the red-beard was shouting laughter that the others echoed.

“He has courage.”

“Let him live.”

“Aye. Let him live. He may amuse us for a while. …”

“And then?”

“Then the pit—with the others.”

The others? Stuart slanted a glance downward. The silver mists had dissipated now, and he could see that the abyss was not bottomless. Its floor was fifty feet below the surface on which he stood, and a dozen figures were visible beneath.

They stood motionless—like statues. A burly, leather-clad Earthmen who might have been whisked from some Plutonian mine; a slim, scantily clad Earthgirl, her hair powdered blue, her costume the shining sequin-suit of a tavern entertainer. A stocky, hunch-shouldered Venusian with his slate-gray skin; a Martian girl, seven feet tall, with limbs and features of curious delicacy, her hair piled high atop that narrow skull. Another Earthman—a thin, pale, clerklike fellow. A white-skinned, handsome Callistan native, looking like Apollo, and, like all Callistans, harboring the cold savagery of a demon behind that smooth mask.

A dozen of them—drawn from all parts of the System. Stuart remembered that this was the time of the periodic tithing—which meant nothing less than a sacrifice. Once each month a few men and women would vanish—not many—and the black ships of the Aesir priests sped back to Asgard with their captives.

Not one looked up. Frozen motionless as stone, they stood there in the pit—waiting.

Again the laughter crashed out. The red-beard was watching Stuart.

“His courage flags,” the great voice boomed. “Speak the truth, Earthman. Have you courage to face the gods?”

Stuart stubbornly refused to answer. He had an odd, reasonless impression that this was part of some deep game, that behind the mocking byplay lay a more serious purpose.

“He has courage now,” a giant said. “But did he always have courage? Has there never been a time in his life when courage failed him? Answer, Earthman!”

Stuart was listening to another voice, a quiet, infinitely distant voice within his brain that whispered: Do not answer them!

“Let him pass our testing,” the red-beard commanded. “If he fails, there is an end. If he does not fail—he goes into the pit to walk the Long Orbit.”

The giant leaned forward.

“Will you match skill—and courage—with us, Earthling?”

Still Stuart did not answer. More than ever now he sensed the violent, hidden undercurrents surging beneath the surface of this byplay. More than he knew swung in the balance here.

He nodded.

“He has courage,” a giant repeated. “But did he always have courage?”

“We shall see …” the red-beard said.

The air shimmered before Stuart. Through its shaking his senses played him false. He knew quite well who he was and where he stood, in what deadly peril—but in that shimmer which bewildered the eyes and the mind he was a boy again, seeing a certain hillside he had not seen except through his boyhood’s eyes. And he saw a black horse standing above him on the slope, pawing the ground and looking at him with red eyes. And an old, old terror came flooding over him that he had not remembered for a quarter of a century. A boy’s acute and sudden terror. …

Who had opened the doors of his mind and laid this secret bare? He himself had long forgotten—and who upon this alien world could look back through space and time to remind him of that long-ago day when the vicious black horse had thrown an inexperienced boy rider and planted a seed of terror in his mind which he had been years outgrowing? But the fear was long gone now, long gone. … Was it?

Then whence had come this monstrous black stallion that pawed the floor of the hall, glaring down red-eyed at him and showing teeth like fangs? No horse, but a monster in the shape of a horse, a monster ten feet high at the shoulder, wearing the shape of his boyhood nightmare that woke in Stuart even now the old, unreasoning horror. …

It was stamping down upon him, shaking its bridled head, snorting, lifting its lip above the impossible teeth. He saw the reins hanging loose, he saw the saddle and the swinging stirrups. He knew that the only safety in this hall for him was paradoxically upon the nightmare’s back, where the hoofs and fangs could not reach him. But the terror and revulsion which the boy had buried long ago came welling up from founts deep-buried in the man’s subconscious mind. …

Now it was rushing him, head like a snake’s outthrust, hissing like a snake, reins flying like Medusa-locks as it stretched to seize him. For one instant he stood there paralyzed. He had faced dangers on many worlds to which this nightmare was nothing, but he had never since boyhood felt the paralysis of horror that gripped him now. It was a child’s horror, resurrected from the caves of sleep to ruin him. …

With a superhuman effort he broke that frozen fear, snatching for the flying reins, whirling as the monstrous thing swept past him in a thunder of terrifying hoofs. Desperately he clung to the reins, and as the thing rushed by he somehow got a clutching hand upon the saddle-horn and found a stirrup that swung sickeningly when it took his weight.

Then he was in the saddle, dizzy still with the terrors of childhood, but astride the nightmare.

And now, with a sudden intoxicating clarity, the fear fell from his mind. For an instant he sat high on the back of the incredible fanged thing, an old, old terror clearing from his mind. Confidence which was, he knew, his own and no bodiless reassurance drawn from dreams, such as he had felt in the jungle, flooded warmly through him. He was not afraid any more—he would never be afraid. The festering terror buried deep in his childhood had come to light at last and was wiped away. He caught the reins tight and flashed a sudden grin around the hall—

Brazen laughter boomed through the building. And beneath his knees Stuart felt the horse’s body alter incredibly. One moment he was gripping a solid, warm-fleshed, hairy thing whose body had a familiar pitch and motion beneath the saddle. Then, then—

Indescribably the body writhed under him. The warm hairy flesh flowed and changed. Cold struck through leatheroid against his thighs, and it was a smooth, pouring cold of many alien muscles working powerfully together in a way no mammal knows. He looked down.

He was riding a monstrous snake that twisted its head to look at him in the moment he realized what had happened. Its great diamond-shaped head towered high and came looping down toward him, wide-mouthed, tongue like a flame flickering. …

It laid its cold, smooth cheek against his with a hideous caressing motion, sliding around his neck, sliding down his arm and side, laying a loop of cold, scaly strength around him and pressing, pressing. …

His hands closed around the thickness of its throat, futilely—and the throat melted in his grasp and was hairy with a hairiness no mammal ever knew. The motion of the body he bestrode changed again and was incredibly springy and light.

He rode a monstrous spider. His hands were sunk wrist-deep in loathsome coarse hair, and his eyes stared into great cold faceted eyes that mirrored his own face a thousandfold. He saw his own distorted features looking back at him in countless miniatures, but behind the faces, in the great eyes of the spider, he saw no consciousness regarding him. The cold multiple eyes were not aware of Derek Stuart. Behind the shield of its terrible face the spider shut away its own arachnid thoughts and the memories of the red fields of Mars that were its home. With dreadful, impersonal aloofness its mandibles gaped forward toward its prey.

Loathing ran in waves of weakness through Stuart’s whole body, but he shut his eyes and blindly struck out at the nearer of those great mirroring eyes, feeling wetness shatter against his fist as—as—

As the horror shifted and vanished, while rippling waves of green light darkened all about him. Now they coagulated, drew together into a meadow, cool with Earthly grass, bordered by familiar trees far away. Primroses gleamed here and there. Above him was the blue sky and the warm bright sun that shone only upon the hills of Earth.

But what he felt was horror.

Twenty feet from him was a rank, rounded patch of weeds. His gaze was drawn inexorably to that spot. And it was from there that the crawling dread reached out to him.

Faintly he heard laughter … of the gods … of the Aesir. The Aesir? Who—what were they? How had he, Derek Stuart, ever heard of them except as a name whispered in fear as the spaceships streaked through the clouds above that Dakota farmstead. …

Derek Stuart … a boy of eleven. …

But—but—that was wrong, somehow. He wasn’t a child any more. He had matured, become a spaceman—

Dreams. The dreams of an eleven-year-old.

Yet the hollow, dreadful laughter throbbed somewhere, in the vaults of the blue overhead, in the solidity of the very ground beneath him.

This had happened before. It had happened to a boy in South Dakota—a boy who had not known what lay concealed in that verdant clump of weeds.

But now, somehow—and very strangely—Stuart knew what he would find there.

He was afraid. Horribly, sickeningly afraid. Cold nausea crawled up his spine and the calves of his legs. He wanted to turn and run to the farmhouse half a mile away. He almost turned, and then paused as the distant laughter grew louder.

They wanted him to run. They were trying to scare him—and, once the defenses of his courage had broken, he would be lost. Stuart knew that with an icy certainty.

Somewhere, very far away, he sensed a man standing in a cyclopean hall—a man in ragged spaceman’s garb, hard-faced, thin-lipped, angry-eyed. A familiar figure. The man was urging him on—telling him to go on toward that clump of weeds—

Derek Stuart obeyed the voiceless command. His throat dry, his heart pumping, he forced himself across the meadow till he stood at his goal and looked down at the bloody, twisted corpse of the tramp who had been knifed by another hobo, twenty years before, on that Dakota farm. The old nausea of shocked horror took him by the throat and strangled him.

He fought it down. This time he didn’t run screaming back to the farmhouse. …

And suddenly the laughter of the gods was stilled. Derek Stuart, a man once more in mind, stood again in the tower of the Aesir. The thrones between the monstrous pillars were vacant.

The Aesir were gone.

III

Stuart let out his breath in a long sigh. He had no illusions about the vanishment of the Aesir; he knew he had not conquered those mighty beings. It would take more than human powers to do that. But at least he had a respite. All but the most stolid spacemen develop hypertension, and there seems to be a curious mathematical rule about that; it increases according to the distance from the Sun. Which may be explained by the fact that environmental differences also increase as the outer planets are reached—and alien environments breed alien creatures. A great many men have gone insane on Pluto. …

This was not Pluto; it was nearer Sunward than Jupiter, but the utter alienage that brooded over Asgard was almost palpable. Even the solidity under Stuart’s feet, the very stones of the planetoid, were artificially created, by a science a million years beyond that of his own time. And the Aesir—

Unexpectedly his deep chest shook with laughter. The inexplicable self-confidence that had first come to him in the Asgard forests had not waned; it seemed to have grown even stronger since his meeting with the Aesir giants. Now he stared around the colossal hall, his eyes straining toward the spot of light far above where those incredible columns converged. His own insignificance by comparison did not trouble him.

Whether or not he could have the slightest hope of winning this game—at least he was giving his enemies a run for their money!

A sound from the pit roused him. Stuart walked warily toward the edge. The dozen motionless figures were still there, fifty feet below, and among them was one he had not noticed before—an Earthgirl, he thought, with curling dark hair framing a white face as she tilted up her chin and stared at him.

At this distance he could make out few details; she wore a close-fitting green suit which left slender arms and legs bare.

“Earthman—” she said, in a clear, carrying voice. “Earthman! Quick! The Aesir will be back—go now! Leave their temple before they—”

“Don’t waste your breath,” Stuart said. “This is Asgard.” Whoever the girl was, she should know the impossibility of leaving the taboo world. “If I can find a rope—”

She said quickly, “You won’t find one. Not here, in the temple.”

“How can I get you out of there? And the others?”

“You’re mad,” the girl said. “What good would it do. …” She shook her head. “Better to die at once.”

Stuart narrowed his eyes at the dozen frozen figures. “I don’t think so. Fourteen of us can put up a better fight than one. If your friends wake up—”

The girl said, “On your left, between the pillars, there’s a tapestry showing Perseus and the Gorgon. Touch the helm of Perseus and the hand of Andromeda. Then go carefully—there may be traps.”

“What is it?”

“It will lead you down here. You can free us. If you hurry—oh, but it’s hopeless! The Aesir—”

“Damn the Aesir,” Stuart snarled. “Wake up the others!” He whirled and ran toward the distant wall, where he could see the Perseus tapestry, brown and gold, a huge curtain between two columns.

If the Aesir saw, they made no move. …

Stuart’s lips twisted in a bitter smile. The crazy confidence had not left him, but he was conscious of a reassuring warmth; at least he was no longer completely alone. That would help. Between the worlds, and on the desolate planets that swing along the edge of the System, loneliness is the lurking terror, more horrible than the most exotic monster ever spawned by the radioactive Plutonian earth.

He touched the tapestry twice; it swept away from him, and a staircase was visible, leading down through stone or metal—he could not tell which. Stuart fought back the impulse that urged him to race down those curving spiral steps. The girl had spoken of traps.

He went warily, testing each tread before he put his weight upon it. Though he did not think that the snares of the Aesir would be so simple.

At the bottom, he emerged into a vaulted chamber, tiny by comparison with the one he had left. It was oval, domed ceiling and walls and floor shining with a milky radiance—except at one spot.

There he saw a door—transparent. Through it he looked into the pit. He was on a level with the floor of that shaft now; he could see the dozen figures still standing motionless in a huddled group, and a few feet beyond the glassy pane was the Earthgirl. She was looking directly at him, but her dark eyes had a blind seeking, as though the door was opaque from her side.

Stuart paused, his hand on the complicated mechanism that, he guessed, would open the portal. His hard, dark face was impassive, but he was conscious of an unfamiliar stirring deep within him. From above, he had not seen the girl’s beauty.

He saw it now.

She couldn’t be an Earthgirl—entirely. She must be one of those disturbingly lovely interplanetary halfbreeds. Earth-blood she had, of course, and predominantly, but there was something more, the pure essence of beauty that blazed through her like a flame kindled in a lamp of crystal. In all his wanderings between the worlds, Stuart had never seen a girl as breathtakingly lovely as this one.

His hand moved on the controls: the door slid silently open. The girl’s eyes brightened. She gave a little gasp and ran toward him. Without question she sought refuge in his arms, and for a moment Stuart held her—not unwillingly.

He thrust her away gently.

“The others.”

She said, “It’s useless. The paralysis—”

Stuart scowled and stepped across the threshold into the pit. Uneasiness crawled along his spine as he did so. The Aesir might be watching from above, or—or—

There was nothing. Only dead silence, and the uneven breathing of the girl as she stood in the doorway watching. Stuart stopped before the leather-clad Earthman and tested a burly arm. The man stood frozen, his flesh cold and hard as stone, his eyes staring glassily. He was not even breathing.

So with the others. Stuart grimaced and shrugged. He turned back toward the girl, and felt a pulse of relief as he stepped into the shining chamber. He might be no safer here, but at least he wasn’t so conscious of inhuman eyes that might be watching from above. Not that solid stone might be any barrier to the Aesir’s probing gaze. …

The girl touched the mechanism; the door slid silently shut. “It’s no use,” she said. “The paralysis holds all the others. Only I could battle it—a little. And that was because—”

“Save it,” Stuart said. He turned toward the door by which he had entered, but an urgent hand gripped his wrist.

“Let me talk,” the quiet voice said. “We’re as safe here as anywhere. And there may be a way—now that I can think clearly again.”

“A way out? A safe way?”

There was a haunted look in her dark eyes. “I don’t know. I’ve lived here for a long time. The others—” she pointed toward the door of the pit. “The sacrifices were brought to Asgard only yesterday. But I’ve been here many moons. The Aesir kept me alive for a bit, to amuse them. Then they tired, and I was thrown in with the others. But I learned a little. I—I—no one can dwell here in the Aesir stronghold without—changing a little. That’s why the paralysis didn’t hold me as long as it holds the others.”

“Can we save them?”

“I don’t know,” she said, with a small, helpless shrug. “I don’t even know if we can save ourselves. It’s been so long since I was brought to Asgard that I—I scarcely remember my life before that. But I have learned a little of the Aesir—and that may help us now.”

Stuart watched her. She tried to smile, but not successfully.

She said, “I’m Kari. The rest—I’ve forgotten. You’re—”

“Derek Stuart.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“We haven’t time,” Stuart said impatiently, but Kari shook her head.

“We’ll need weapons, and I must know—first—if you can use them. Tell me!”

Well, she was right. She had knowledge that Stuart needed. So he told her, very briefly, what he remembered.

She stared at him. “Voices—in your mind?”

“Something like that. I don’t know—”

“No. No. Or—wait—” He tried to focus his thoughts upon a far, faint calling that came from infinite distances. His name. An urgent summons—

It faded and was gone.

“There’s nothing,” Stuart said finally, and Kari moved her shoulders uneasily.

“No help there, then.”

“Tell me one thing. What’s the Aesir’s power? Hypnotism?”

“No,” Kari said, “or not entirely. They can make thoughts into real things. They are—what the race of man will evolve into in a million years. And they have changed, into beings utterly alien to humans.”

“They looked human—giants, though.”

“They can assume any shape,” Kari told him. “Their real form is unimaginable. Being of pure energy … mental force … matrixes of electronic power. They were striking at you through your mind.”

Stuart said, “I wondered why they didn’t set some of their Watchers on me.”

“I don’t know why they didn’t,” Kari frowned. “Instead, they hammered at your weaknesses—old fears that hung on to you for years. Experiences that frightened you in the past. They sent your mind back into that past—but you were too strong for them.”

“Too strong—?”

“Then. They have other powers, Stuart—incredible powers. You can’t fight them alone. And you must fight them. In a thousand years no one has dared—”

Stuart remembered something. “Two dared—once.”

Kari nodded. “I know. I know the legends, anyway. About John Starr and Lorna. The great rebels who first defied the Aesir when the tyranny began. But they may have been only legendary figures. Even if they were real—they failed.”

“Yes, they failed. And they’re a thousand years dead. But it shows something—to me at least. Man wasn’t meant to be a slave to these monsters. Rebellion—”

Kari watched him. Stuart’s eyes were shadowed.

“John Starr and Lorna,” he whispered. “I wonder what their world was like, a thousand years ago? We’ve got all the worlds now, all the planets of the System from Jupiter to the smallest asteroid. But we don’t rule them, as men owned their own Earth in those days. We’re slaves to the Aesir.”

“The Aesir are—are gods.”

“John Starr didn’t think so,” Stuart said. “Neither do I. And at worst I can always die, as he did. Listen, Kari.” He gripped her arms. “Think. You’ve lived here for a while. Is there any weapon against those devils?”

She met his gaze steadily. “Yes,” she said. “But—”

“What is it? Where?”

Abruptly Kari’s face changed. She pressed herself against Stuart, avoiding his lips, simply seeking—he knew—warmth and companionship. She was crying softly.

“So long—” Kari whispered, her arms tight around him. “I’ve been here so long—with the gods. And I’m so lonely, Derek Stuart. So lonely for green fields and fires and the blue sky. I wish—”

“You’ll see Earth again,” Stuart promised. At that Kari pulled away. Her strange half-breed loveliness was never more real than then, with tears sparkling on her dark lashes, and her mouth trembling.

She said, a catch in her voice, “I’ll show you the weapon, Stuart.”

She turned toward the wall. Her hand moved in a quick gesture. A panel opened there in the glowing surface.

Kari reached in, and when she withdrew her arm, it was as though she held a torrent of blood that poured down from her grip. It was a cloak, Stuart saw, made of some material so fine that it rippled like water. Its crimson violence was bizarre against the cool green of Kari’s garment.

“This cloak—” she said. “You must wear it if we face the Aesir.”

Stuart grimaced. “What good is a piece of cloth? A blaster gun’s what I want.”

“A blaster wouldn’t help,” Kari said. “This is more than a piece of cloth, Stuart. It is half-alive—made so by the sciences of the Aesir. Wear it! It will protect you.”

She swung the great, scarlet billows about Stuart’s shoulders. Her fingers fumbled with the clasp at his throat. And then—

She lies!

The desperate urgency of the thought roared through Stuart’s mind. He knew that soundless voice, so sharp now with violent intensity. His hands came up to rip the cloak from him—

He was too late. Kari sprang back, wide-eyed, as the fastenings of the cloak tightened like a noose about Stuart’s neck. He felt a stinging shock that ran like white fire along his spine and up into his brain. One instant of blazing disorientation, a hopeless, despairing cry in his mind—a double cry, as of two telepathetic voices—and then, his muscles too weak to hold him, he crashed down upon the floor.

It was not paralysis. He was simply drained of all strength. There was pressure about his throat, cold flames along his spine and in his brain, and he could feel the texture of the cloak wrapped about him, striking through his spaceman’s garb—tingling, sentient, half-alive!

He whispered an oath. Kari’s face had not changed. He read something strangely like pity in her dark eyes.

From the gap in the wall whence she had drawn the cloak came a figure, cloaked in black, a jet cowl hiding its head and face completely. It was taller than the girl by a foot. It shuffled forward with an odd, rocking gait, and paused near her.

Stuart whispered, “I—should have remembered. The—the Aesir can change their shapes. Those giants I saw weren’t real. And neither are you—not even human!”

Kari shook her head. “I am real,” she said slowly. “He is not.” She gestured toward the black-cloaked figure. “But we are all of the Aesir. And, as we thought, you were sent by the Protectors. Now your power is gone, and you must walk the Long Orbit with the other captives.”

The cowled creature came forward. It bent, but Stuart could see nothing in the shadow of the hood. A fold of cloth writhed out and touched Stuart’s forehead.

Darkness wrapped him like the shroud of the scarlet cloak.

IV

For a long time he had only his thoughts for company. They were not pleasant. He felt alone, as he had never felt so utterly lonely and deserted before anywhere in the System. Now he realized that even since his landing on Asgard, he had had companionship of a sort—that the twin voices murmuring in his brain had been more real than he had realized. A living warmth, a sense of—of presence—had been with him then.

But it was gone now. Its absence left a black void within him. He stood alone.

And Kari. … If he saw her again when his hands were free, he would kill her. He knew that. But—but her shining smile lightened the darkness that engulfed him now. He had never seen loveliness like Kari’s, and he had known so many women, so many, too many. … A man who has fought his way Sunward and back again by way of Pluto’s chasmed midnight is not so easily misled by the smile of a pretty woman.

Kari was no ordinary woman—God knew she was not! Perhaps not even human, perhaps not even real at all. It might be that very touch of alienage that had stamped her shining image upon his memory, but he could not put the image aside now. He saw her clearly in the darkness of his captivity and the deeper dark of his loneliness, now that the voices were stilled. Lovely, exotic, with the eyes full of longing and terror—what lies they told!—and that lovely, that dazzling smile.

Bitterness made a wry taste in his mouth. Either she was one of the Aesir, or she served them. Served them well. A knife in the heart was the only answer he had for her, and he meant to give her that edged answer if he lived. But she was so very lovely. …

Slowly the veil of darkness lifted. He saw a face he had seen before—the harsh, seamed features of the burly Earthman in the pit. And beyond him, the slim Martian girl. All motionless, standing like statues beside him … beside him! For Stuart was one of them now. He was in the pit, with the other captives.

Sensation came back slowly. With it came a tingling, a warm vibration along his spine … about his throat … inside his brain. He could not move, but at the corner of his range of vision flamed a crimsonness—the cloak. He still wore it.

He wondered if the other captives could see him, if their minds were as active as his in their congealed bodies. Or whether the chill of deathlike silence held their brains along with their frozen limbs.

A slow, volcanic fury began to glow within him. Kari—traitor and murderess! Was she Aesir? Was she Earthborn? And that black-cloaked, cowled creature … which was not real. Another projector of the Aesir, as the giants had been?

You were sent by the Protectors.

Memory of Kari’s phrase came back to Stuart now. And with it, as though he had somehow unbarred a locked gate, opened it a mere crack, came a—a whispering.

Not audible. Faint, faraway, like the shadow of a wind rustling ghosts of autumn leaves, the murmur rose and fell … calling him.

The scarlet cloak moved … writhed … flowed more closely about him. Fainter grew the voices.

Stuart strained after them. His soul sprang up … reaching toward those friendly, utterly inhuman whispers that came from nowhere.

A dull lethargy numbed him. The cloak drew tighter. …

He ignored it. Deep in the citadel of his mind, he made himself receptive, all his being focused on that—that strange calling from beyond.

And, suddenly, there were words. …

“Derek Stuart. Can you hear us? Answer!”

His stiff lips could not speak, but his thoughts formed an answer. And, rising and falling as though the frequency of that incredible telepathy pulsed and changed continually, the message came—

“We have lost. You have lost too, Stuart. But we will stay with you—we must stay now—and perhaps your death will be easier because of that. …”

“Who are you?” he thought, oddly awed by the personality he sensed behind that voice that was really two voices.

“There is little time.” The—sound?—faded into a thin whisper, then grew stronger. “The cloak makes it hard for us to communicate with you. And now we can give you none of our power at all. It is a monstrous thing—a blasphemy such as only the Aesir would create. Half-alive—it makes an artificial synapse between the individual and outside mental contacts. We cannot help you—”

“Who are you?”

“We are the Protectors. Listen now, Stuart, for soon you must walk the Long Orbit with the others. We removed some of your memories, so the Aesir could not read your mind and have time to prepare themselves—we hoped we might destroy them this time. But—we have failed again. Now—we give you your memories back.”

Like a slowly rising tide, Stuart’s past began to return. He did not question how this was done; he was too busy lifting the veil that had darkened his mind since—since that night at the Singing Star in New Boston. A few drinks with the tired-eyed man, and then darkness—

But the curtain was lifting now. He remembered. …

He remembered a tiny, underground room, with armed men—not many of them—staring at him. A voice that said, “You must either join us or die. We dare run no risks. For hundreds of years a tiny band of us has survived, only because the Aesir did not know we existed.”

“Rebels?” he had asked.

“Sworn to destroy the Aesir,” the man told him, and an answering glow burned briefly in the eyes of the others.

Stuart laughed.

“You have courage,” the man said. “You’ll need it. I know why you laugh. But we don’t fight alone. Have you ever heard of the Protectors?”

“Never.”

“Few have. They aren’t human, any more than the Aesir are. But they are not evil. They’re humanity’s champions. They have sworn to destroy the Aesir, as we have—and so we serve them.”

“Who are they, then? What are they?”

“No man knows,” the other said quietly. “Who—and where—they are is a secret they keep to themselves. But we hear their messages. And once in a lifetime, not oftener, they tell us where we may find some man they have winnowed the planets to discover. In our lifetime, Stuart, you are the man.”

He gaped at them. “Why? I—”

“To be a weapon for the Protectors—a champion for mankind. The Protectors are so far beyond humanity they cannot fight our battles in their own forms. They need a—a vessel into which they can pour their power. Or—call it a sword to wield against the Aesir. They have searched the worlds over for a long while now, and you—” The man hesitated, looking narrowly at Stuart. “You are the only vessel they found. You have a great destiny, Derek Stuart.”

He had scowled at them. “All right, suppose I have. What do they offer?”

The man shook his head. “Death—if you’re lucky. No man before you has ever won a battle for the Protectors. You know that—the Aesir still rule! Every chance is against you. In a thousand years no man has won the gamble. But this is greater than you or us, Derek Stuart. Do you think you have any choice?”

Stuart stared the other man in the eyes. “There’s no chance?”

The leader smiled. All mankind’s indomitable hope was in the smile.

“Would the Protectors have spent all their efforts, and ours, to find you if there were no hope? They have mighty and terrible powers. With the right man for their vessel, they could be stronger than the Aesir. No man could stand alone against the Aesir. The Protectors could not stand alone. But together—sword and hand and brain welded into one—yes, Stuart, there’s a chance!”

“Then why have the others failed?”

“No one has yet been quite strong enough. Only once in forty years—fifty—is a man born who might, with luck, have the courage and the strength. Look at us here—do you think we would not offer ourselves gladly? Instead, the Protectors guided us to you. If you are willing to let them establish contact with your mind, enter it, possess it—there’s a chance the Aesir can be destroyed. There’s a chance that man’s slavery may be ended!” His voice shook with that mighty hope.

Stuart glanced around at the ardent, fanatical faces, and something in him took a slow fire from the fire in theirs. A deep and vital purpose, as old as humanity—how many times before in Earth’s history had men of Earth gathered in hidden rooms and sworn vows against tyranny and oppression? How many times before had Earthmen dedicated themselves and their son’s sons, if need be, to the old, old dream that though men may die, mankind must in the end be free?

Here in this crowded room the torch of freedom still burned, despite the hell of slavery under which the worlds toiled now.

He hesitated.

“It won’t be easy, Stuart,” the man warned. “A sword—blade must be hammered on the anvil, heated in flame, before it’s tempered. The Protectors will test you—so that your mind may be toughened to resist the attacks of the Aesir later. You will suffer. …”

He had suffered. Those agonizing, nightmare dreams in the forest, the phantoms that had tortured him—other trials he did not want to remember. But there had been no flaw in the blade. In the end—the Protectors had been satisfied, and had entered his mind—maintaining the contact that still held, though thinly now.

And the voices he heard still whispering within him were the voices of his mentors. …

“We took your memories from you. So that the Aesir could not read too much in your mind, and be forewarned. Now that does not matter, and you will be stronger with your memory restored. But when you let the girl clasp the cloak about you—that was failure.”

“If I could move,” Stuart thought. “If I could rip it off—”

“It is part of you. We do not know how it can be removed. And while you wear it, we cannot give you our power.”

Stuart said bitterly. “If you’d given me that power in the first place—”

“We did. How do you think you survived the first testing by the Aesir? And it is dangerous. We must gauge it carefully, so that we do not transmit too much of our mental energy to you. You are merely human—if we let you draw on a tenth of our power, that would burn you out like a melting wire under a strong current.”

“So—what now?”

“We have lost again. You have lost, and we are sorry. All we can do is give you an easy death. We possess you now, mentally; if we should withdraw from your brain, you would die instantly. We will do that whenever you ask. For the Aesir will kill you anyhow now, and not pleasantly.”

“I’m not committing suicide. As long as I live, I can still fight.”

“We also. This has happened before. We have chosen and possessed other champions, and they have failed. We withdrew from their minds before the Aesir … killed … so that we could survive to try again. To wage another battle. Some day we will win. Some day we shall destroy the Aesir. But we dare not cling to our broken swords, lest we too be broken.”

“So when the going gets tough you step out!”

Stuart sensed pity in the strange twin voice. “We must. We fight for the race of man. And the greatest gift we can give you now is quick death.”

“I don’t want it,” Stuart thought furiously. “I’m going to keep on fighting! Maybe that’s why you’ve always failed before—you were too ready to give up. So I’ll die if you step out of my mind? Well—it’s a lousy bargain!”

There was no anger, only a stronger overtone of pity in the still voice.

“What is it you want, Stuart?”

“Nothing from you! Just let me go on living. I’ll do my own fighting. There’ll be time enough to take a powder when the axe falls. I’m asking you simply this—keep me alive until I’ve had another crack at the Aesir!”

A pause. “It is dangerous. Dangerous for us. But—”

“Well?”

“We will take the risk. But understand—we must leave you if the peril grows too great. And will—inevitably.”

“Thanks,” Stuart said, and meant it. “One thing. What about Kari? Who is she?”

“A hundred years ago she was human. Then she was brought here, and the Aesir possessed her—as we possess you. She has grown less human in that time, as the alien grows stronger within her. She has only faint memories of her former life now, and they will vanish soon. Contact with the Aesir is like an infection—she will grow more and more like them. Perhaps, eventually, become one of them.”

Stuart grimaced. “If the Aesir should withdraw from her—”

“She would die, yes. Her own life-force has been sapped too far. You and she are kept alive only as long as the bond of possession holds.”

Nice, Stuart thought. If the Aesir were destroyed, Kari would die with him. And if he faced doom, he too would die, as the Protectors withdrew to avoid sharing his fate.

Hell—what did he care whether Kari lived or died? It was only the glamor of half-alienage that had drawn him to the girl. A dagger in her throat—

Besides, he was certainly facing doom now.

“All I can do—” he said—and stopped abruptly. He was speaking aloud. Patiently the twin voice in his brain waited for him to continue.

Slowly he flexed his arms. He tilted back his head, staring up at the rim of the pit fifty feet above him. He could see the titan pillars rising toward the roof of that mighty tower, incredibly far above. But there was no sign of life.

“I can move,” he said. “I—”

Struck by a new thought, he gripped the folds of the cloak. It was nauseously warm and vibrant. It seemed to move under his hands. He jerked at it, and felt a twinge of agonizing pain along his spine and about his throat, while a white-hot lance stabbed into his skull.

“If I could get rid of this—you could help me?”

“We could give you our power, to use against the Aesir. But we do not know how to remove the cloak.”

“I don’t either,” Stuart growled, and paused as a movement caught his eye. The muscular Earthman near him was stirring.

He turned slowly. Beyond him the Martian girl swayed her feathery-crested head and lifted supple, slender arms. And the others—all about Stuart they were wakening to motion.

But no life showed in their dull eyes. No understanding. Only a blind, empty withdrawal.

They turned, trooped toward the wall of the pit … toward an arched opening that was gaping suddenly.

“The Long Orbit,” said the voice in Stuart’s mind.

“What’s that?”

“Death. As the Aesir feed. They feed on the life-force of living organisms.”

“Is that the only way out?”

“The only way open to you. Yes.”

Stuart went slowly after the others. They had crossed the threshold now, and were pacing along a tunnel, lit with cold blue brilliance, that curved very gradually toward the left. Behind him a panel closed.

The cloak swayed like a great bloodstain behind him, moving in a motion not entirely caused by Stuart’s movements. He tried again to unfasten it, but the clasp at his throat only drew tighter. And the tingling sensation increased along his spine.

An artificial synapse … blocking his nerve-ends so that he could not draw upon the Protectors’ power. …

At his left was an alcove in the tunnel wall. It was filled with coagulated light … bright with glaring flames … flame-hot. Within that white curtain stirred swift movement, like the leaping of fires. Above the recess a symbol was embossed in the stone. The sign of Mercury.

“Mercury,” said the voice in Stuart’s mind. “The Servant of the Sun. The Swift Messenger. Mercury, that drinks the Sun’s fires and blazes like a star in the sky’s abyss. First in the Long Orbit—Mercury.”

The crowd of prisoners, dull-eyed, swayed to and fro, a ripple of excitement rustling through them. Abruptly the Martian girl darted forward—

Was engulfed in the milky flames.

Stood there, while curdled opalescence veiled her. On her face sheer horror, as—

“The Aesir feed,” the voice whispered. “They drink the cup of her life … to its last dregs.”

The captives were moving again. Silently Stuart followed them along the tunnel. Now another recess showed in the wall.

Blue … blue, this time, as hazy seas of enchantment … misted with fog, with slow shifting movement within it. …

“The sign of Venus,” said the voice. “The Clouded World. Planet of life and womb of creation. Ruler of mists and seas—Venus!”

The Earthman was drawn into the alcove. Stood there, while azure seas washed higher and higher about him. Through that glassy veil his face glared, stiff with alien fear. …

The sacrifices went on.

There was no alcove, no symbol for Earth. The Aesir had forgotten the world that had been their place of birth.

“Mars! Red star of madness! Ruler of man’s passion, lord of the bloody seas! Where scarlet sands run through Time’s hourglass—Mars, third in the Long Orbit!”

The crimson glow of a dusty ruby … the face of a Venusian, strained, twisted in agony … the hunger of the Aesir. …

“The Little Worlds! The Great Belt that girdles the Inner System! The Broken Planet—”

Tiny goblin lights, dancing and flickering, blue and sapphire and dull orange, wine-red and dawn-yellow—

The hunger of the Aesir.

“Jupiter! Titan! Colossus of the Spaceroads! Jupiter, whose mighty hands seize the ships of man and drag them to his boiling heart! The Great One-fifth in the Long Orbit!”

The hunger of the Aesir.

“Ringed Saturn light-crowned! Guardian of the outer skies! Saturn—”

Uranus … Neptune. …

Pluto.

The hunger of the Aesir. …

Beyond Pluto, dark worlds Stuart had not known. Until finally he was alone. The last of his companions had been drawn into one of the vampire alcoves of the Long Orbit.

He went on.

There was another recess in the wall at his left. It was filled with night. Jet blackness, cold and horrible, brimmed it.

Something like an invisible current dragged him forward, though he fought with all his strength to resist. Instinctively he sent out a desperate call to the Protectors.

“We cannot aid you. We must leave you … you will die instantly.”

“Wait! Don’t—don’t give up yet! Give me your power—”

“We cannot. While you wear the cloak.”

The edge of blackness touched Stuart with a frigid impact. He felt something, avid with horrible hunger, strain forward from of the alcove, reaching for him. The cloak billowed out—

Sweat stood out on Stuart’s face. For, suddenly, he had seen the way. It might mean death, it would certainly mean frightful agony—but he could go down fighting. If the cloak could not be removed in any other way—perhaps it could be ripped off! He gripped the half-living fabric at its bottom, brought his arm behind him—and tore the horror from him!

Stark, abysmal nerve-shock poured like a current of fire up his spine and into his brain. It was like tearing off his own skin. Sick, blind, gasping dry-throated sobs, Stuart stumbled away from the black alcove, tearing at the cloak. It tried to cling to him—

He ripped it away—hurled it from him. And as it fell—it screamed!

But he was free.

For an instant sheer weakness overwhelmed him. Then into him poured a racing, jubilant torrent of strength, of mighty, intoxicating power that seemed to heal his wounds and revivify him instantly.

Into him surged the power of the Protectors!

From the alcove a finger of darkness tendrilled out. He was borne away from it … along the passage. Dimly, through drifting mists, he sensed that he was moving up a ramp … through a wall that seemed to grow intangible as he approached it … up and up. …

He was in the hall of the Aesir.

Above him the cyclopean pillars towered, dwarfing the thrones set between them. Before him hung the shifting wall of light.

He was carried toward it—through it.

He stood on a black dais. Facing him was the cloaked, cowled figure he had last seen with Kari.

And beside the Aesir stood Kari!

The creature lifted its arm … a red flame spouted toward Stuart. Sudden, mocking laughter spilled from his lips. He no longer fought alone. The tremendous power of the Protectors blazed within him, power and energy and force that could smash suns.

In midair the fiery lance failed and died. The Aesir drew back a step, drawing its cloak about it as if in surprise. And Kari—Kari shrank back, too, and something strangely like hope flashed for a moment across her dazzling, her more than mortal loveliness. Hope? But she was of the Aesir now. And if they failed, she died. Then why—

The Aesir’s cloak flickered, and a second gush of fiery light fountained toward Stuart.

Up surged the tide of power in him again. Blind and dazed with his own tremendous energy, Stuart felt a curve like a dim shield flung up to meet that lance. The Aesir’s fire struck—and flashed into blazing fragments on the Protector’s shield. Each droplet sang intolerable music as it faded and winked out. And behind the Aesir, more dazzling than any immortal fire had been, Stuart saw Kari’s sudden, shining smile. …

She would die if the Aesir failed. She must know she would die. But the brilliance of her smile struck him as the Aesir’s spear of fire could never strike. He knew, then. He understood. …

The Aesir’s cloak whirled like a storm-cloud, in dark, deep billows. The Aesir itself grew taller for a moment, as if it drew itself up to a godlike height. And then it did for Derek Stuart what no Aesir had ever done for a mortal man before. No Aesir had ever needed to. It cast off the hampering cloak and stood stripped for battle with this primitive manling whose forebears immemorially long ago had been the Aesir’s forebears. There was in that stripping something almost of kinship—an acknowledgment that here at last in the hall of the Aesir stood an equal, sprung of equal stock. …

Naked in its terrible power, the Aesir stood up to face the man.

Not human. Not ever human, except in the mysterious basics which these people of a thousand millenniums in the future had chosen to retain. The flesh they had cast off, and the flesh the Aesir stood up in to face his forebear was pure, blazing, blinding energy. Twice as tall as a man it stood, shining with supernal brilliance, terrible and magnificent.

The great hall rang soundlessly with the power of the Protectors.

And then from above a streak of light came flashing, and another, and another. And were engulfed in the one Aesir who stood shining before its adversary, growing ever brighter and more terrible. The rest of the Aesir, coming to the aid of their fellow, forming a single entity to crush the champion of mankind.

Stuart braced himself for the incredible torrent of energy that would come blasting through him from the Protectors. And in a split second—it came!

Mind and body reeled beneath the impact of that power as force flared through him and struck out at the tower of lightning which was the Aesir. But the force which was trying his human body to its utmost was not force enough to touch that blinding column. Energy lashed out from it, struck him a reeling blow—Stuart dropped to his knees, the hall swimming in fire around him.

But what he saw was not the terrible, blazing image of his adversary, but Kari’s face beyond. His falling meant her life—but when she saw him go down the brilliance dimmed upon her features. The hope he had seen there went out like a candle-flame and she was once more only a vessel of human flesh which the Aesir had possessed and degraded.

In his despair and his dizziness he cried soundlessly, “Help me, Protectors! Give me your power!”

The still double-voice said, “You could not hold it. You would be burned out utterly.”

“I’ll hold it long enough!” he promised desperately. “One second of power—only that! Enough to smash the Aesir. Then death—but not till then!”

There was one instant when time stopped. That cataclysmic horror that had risen a thousand years ago and raged through the worlds like a holocaust stood blazing before Stuart’s eyes. It stooped toward him, poising for the hammer blow that would smash him to nothing—

Then a power like the drive of galaxies through space thundered into Stuart’s mind.

He had not expected this. Nothing in human experience could have taught him to expect it. For the Protectors were not human. No more human than the Aesir themselves. And the unleashed energy that roared soundlessly through Stuart rocked his very soul on its foundations. He could not stir. He could not think. He could only stay upon his knees facing the Aesir-thing as galactic power thundered through him and wielded him like a sword against man’s enemies.

Higher and higher rose the crashing tides of contest. The citadel shook ponderously upon the rocks of the god-made little world. Perhaps that world itself staggered in space as the titans battled together on its rocking surface.

Faster spun the core of radiant light which was the Aesir. Faster raced the tides of power through Stuart’s blasted body, seeming to rip his very flesh apart and blaze in his brain like hammers of cosmic fire.

Terribly, terribly he yearned for surcease, for the end of this unthinkable destruction that was tearing his brain and body apart. And he knew he could end it in a moment, if he chose to let go. …

Grimly he clung to the power that was destroying him. Second by second, counting each moment an eternity, he clung to consciousness. The crashing lances of the Protectors drove on upon the armor of the Aesir, and the cyclopean pillars of the great hall reeled upon their foundations, and the very air blazed into liquid fire around him.

He never knew what final blow of cosmic violence ended that battle. But suddenly, without warning, the vast column of the Aesir pulsed with violent brilliance and the whole hall rang with a cry too shrill and terrible for ears or the very mind to hear, except as a thrilling of despair.

The tower rocked. All the bright tapestries billowed and flowed against the walls. And the radiant thing that was the Aesir—

Went out like a blown flame. Stuart saw it darken in the quickness of a heartbeat from blinding brightness to an angry, sullen scarlet, and then to the color of embers, and then to darkness.

There was nothing there at all.

And Stuart’s brain dimmed with it one last glimpse he had of the shining smile on Kari’s face, triumph and delight, in the instant before the cloudiness of oblivion blotted her features out.

He was not dead. Somewhere, far away, his body lay prone upon the cold pavement of the Aesir’s hall, a hall terribly empty now of life. But Stuart himself hung in empty space, somewhere between life and death.

The thought of the Protectors touched him gently, almost caressingly.

“You are a mighty man, Derek Stuart. Your name shall not be forgotten while mankind lives.”

With infinite effort he roused his mind.

“Kari—” he said.

There was silence for a moment—a warm silence. But the voices, speaking as one, said gently, “Have you forgotten? When the Aesir died, Kari died too. And you, Derek Stuart—you can never go back to your body now. You remember that?”

Sudden rebellion shook Stuart’s bodiless brain. “Get out of my mind!” he raged at the double-voice. “What do you know about human beings? I’ve won for mankind—but what did I win for myself? Nothing—nothing! And Kari—Get out of my mind and let me die! What do you know about love?”

Amazingly, laughter pulsed softly.

“Love?” said the double-voice. “Love? You have not guessed who we are?”

Stuart’s bewildered mind framed only a voiceless question.

“We know humanity,” the twin voices said. “We were human once, a thousand years ago. Very human, Derek Stuart. And we remembered love.”

He half guessed the answer. “You are—”

“There was a man and a woman once,” the voices told him gently. “Mankind still remembers their legend—John Starr and Lorna, who defied the Aesir.”

“John Starr and Lorna!”

“We fought the Aesir in the days when we and they were human. We worked with them on the entropy device that made them what they are now—and made us—ourselves. When we saw what they planned with their power, we fought. … But they were five, and strong because they were ruthless. We had to flee.”

The voices that spoke as one voice were distant, remembering.

“They grew in power on their Asgard world, changing as the millenniums swept over them, as entropy accelerated for them. And we changed, too, in our own place, in our different way. We are not human now. But we are not monsters, as the Aesir were. We have known failure and bitterness and defeat many times, Derek Stuart. But we remember humanity. And as for love—”

Stuart said bitterly:

“You know your love. You have it forever. But Kari … Kari is dead.”

The voices were very gentle. “You have sacrificed more than we. You gave up your love and your bodies. We—”

Silence again. Then the woman, serene and gentle-voiced, “There is a way, John. But not an easy one—for us.”

Stuart thought, “But Kari is dead.”

The woman said, “Her body is empty of the Aesir life-force. And yours is burned out by the power we poured through it, so that no human could live in it again unless—unless one more than human upheld you.”

“Lorna—”

“We must part for awhile, John. We have been one for a long while. Now we must be two again, for the sake of these two. Until the change. …”

“What change?” asked Stuart eagerly.

“As we changed, so would you, if our lives upheld yours. Entropy would move for you as it moved for the Aesir and for us. And that, too, I think, is good. Mankind will need a leader. And we can help—John and I—more surely if we taste again of humanity. After awhile—after millenniums—the circle will close and John and I will be free to merge again. And you and Kari, too.”

Stuart thought, “But Kari—will it be Kari?”

“It will be,” the gentle voice said. “Cleansed of the evil of the Aesir, supported by my own strength, as you by John’s. You will be yourselves again, with the worlds before you, and afterward—a dwelling among the stars, with us. …”

The man’s voice said, “Lorna, Lorna—”

“You know we must, beloved,” the softer voice said. “We have asked too much of them to offer nothing in repayment. And it will not be goodbye.”

There was darkness and silence.

Stuart was dimly aware of cyclopean heights rising above him. Painfully he stirred. He was clothed in his own body again, and the battle-blasted hall of the dead Aesir towered high into the dimness above him.

He turned his head.

Beside him on the dais a girl, lying crumpled in the shower of her hair, stirred and sighed.

Dream’s End

The sanitarium was never quiet. Even when night brought comparative stillness, there was an anticipatory tension in the air—for cyclic mental disorders are as inevitable, though not as regular, as the swing of a merry-go-round.

Earlier that evening Gregson, in Ward 13, had moved into the downswing of his manic-depressive curve, and there had been trouble. Before the orderlies could buckle him into a restraining jacket, he had managed to break the arm of a “frozen” catatonic patient, who had made no sound even as the bone snapped.

Under apomorphine, Gregson subsided. After a few days he would be at the bottom of his psychic curve, dumb, motionless, and disinterested. Nothing would be able to rouse him then, for a while.

Dr. Robert Bruno, Chief of Staff, waited till the nurse had gone out with the no longer sterile hypodermic. Then he nodded at the orderly.

“All right. Prepare the patient. I want him in Surgery Three in half an hour.”

He went out into the corridor, a tall, quiet man with cool blue eyes and firm lips. Dr. Kenneth Morrissey was waiting for him. The younger man looked troubled.

“Surgery, Doctor?”

“Come on,” Bruno said. “We’ve got to get ready. How’s Wheeler?”

“Simple fracture of the radius, I think. I’m having plates made.”

“Turn him over to one of the other doctors,” Bruno suggested. “I need your help.” He used his key on the locked door. “Gregson’s in good shape for the experiment.”

Morrissey didn’t answer. Bruno laughed a little.

“What’s bothering you, Ken?”

“It’s the word experiment,” Morrissey said.

“Pentothal narcosynthesis was an experiment when they first tried it. So is this—empathy surrogate. If there’s a risk, I’ll be taking it, not Gregson.”

“You can’t be sure.”

They stepped into the elevator.

“I am sure,” Bruno said, with odd emphasis. “That’s been my rule all my life. I make sure. I’ve got to be sure before I undertake anything new. This experiment can’t possibly fail. I don’t run risks with patients.”

“Well—”

“Come in here.” Bruno led the way from the elevator to an examination room. “I want a final checkup. Try my blood-pressure.” He stripped off his white coat and deftly wound the pneumatic rubber around his arm.

“I’ve explained the whole situation to Gregson’s wife.” Bruno went on as Morrissey squeezed the bulb. “She’s signed the authorization papers. She knows it’s the only chance to cure Gregson. After all, Ken, the man’s been insane for seven years. Cerebral deterioration’s beginning to set in.”

“Cellular, you mean? Um‑m. I’m not worried about that. Blood-pressure okay. Heart—”

Morrissey picked up a stethoscope. After a while he nodded.

“A physician hasn’t any right to be afraid of the dark,” Bruno said.

“A physician isn’t charting unmapped territory,” Morrissey said abruptly. “You can dissect a cadaver, but you can’t do that to the psyche. As a psychiatrist you should be the first to admit that we don’t know all there is to know about the mind. Would you take a transfusion from a meningitis patient?”

Bruno chuckled. “Witchcraft, Ken—pure witchcraft! The germ theory of psychosis! Afraid I’ll catch Gregson’s insanity? I hate to disillusion you, but episodic disorders aren’t contagious.”

“Just because you can’t see a bug doesn’t mean it isn’t there,” Morrissey growled. “What about a filterable virus? A few years ago nobody could conceive of liquid life.”

“Next you’ll be going back to Elizabethan times and talking about spleen and humors.” Bruno resumed his shirt and coat. He sobered. “In a way, though, this is a transfusion. The only type of transfusion possible. I’ll admit no one knows all there is to know about psychoses. Nobody knows what makes a man think, either. But that’s where physics is beginning to meet medicine. Witchcraft and medicine isolated digitalin when they met. And scientists are beginning to know the nature of thought—an electronic pattern of energy.”

“Empirical!”

“Compare not the brain, but the mind itself, to a uranium pile,” Bruno said. “The potentialities for atomic explosion are in the mind because you can’t make a high-specialized colloid for thinking without approaching the danger level. It’s the price humans pay for being Homo sapiens. In a uranium pile you’ve got boron-steel bars as dampers, to absorb the neutrons before they can get out of control. In the mind, those dampers are purely psychic, naturally—but they’re what keep a man sane.”

“You can prove anything by symbolism,” Morrissey said sourly. “And you can’t stick bars of boron-steel in Gregson’s skull.”

“Yes, I can,” Bruno said. “In effect.”

“But those dampers are—ideas! Thoughts! You can’t—”

“What is a thought?” Bruno asked.

Morrissey grimaced and followed the Chief of Staff out.

“You can chart a thought on the encephalograph—” he said stubbornly.

“Because it’s a radiation. What causes that radiation? Energy emitted by certain electronic patterns. What causes electronic patterns? The basic physical structure of matter. What causes uranium to throw off neutrons under special conditions? Same answer. If an uranium pile starts to get out of control, you can damp it, if you move fast, with boron or cadmium.”

“If you move fast. Why use Gregson? He’s been insane for years.”

“If he’d been insane for only a week, we couldn’t prove it was the empathy surrogate that cured him. You’re just arguing to dodge the responsibility. If you don’t want to help me, I’ll get somebody else.”

“It would take weeks to train another man,” Morrissey said. “No, I’ll operate. Only—have you thought of the possible effect on your own mind?”

“Certainly,” Bruno said. “Why the devil do you suppose I’ve been running exhaustive psychological tests on myself? I’m completely oriented, I’m so normal that my mind must be full of boron dampers.” He paused at the door of his office. “Barbara’s here. I’ll meet you in Surgery.”

Morrissey’s shoulders slumped. Bruno smiled slightly and opened the door. His wife was sitting on a leather couch, idly turning the pages of a psychiatric review.

“Studying?” Bruno said. “Want a job as a nurse?”

“Hello, darling,” she said, tossing the magazine aside.

She came toward him quickly. She was small and dark and, Bruno thought academically, extremely pretty. Then his thoughts stopped being academic as he kissed her.

“What’s up?”

“You’re doing that operation tonight, aren’t you? I wanted to wish you luck.”

“How’d you know?”

“Bob,” she said, “we’ve been married long enough so I can read your mind a little. I don’t know what the operation is, but I know it’s important. So—for luck!”

She kissed him again. Then, with a smile and a nod, she slipped out and was gone. Dr. Robert Bruno sighed, not unhappily, and sat behind his desk. He used the annunciator to check the sanitarium’s routine, made certain everything was running smoothly, and clicked his tongue with satisfaction.

Now—the experiment. …

Surgery Three had some new equipment for the experiment. Bruno’s collaborator, Andrew Parsons, the atomic physicist, was there, small and untidy, with a scowling, wrinkled face that looked incongruous under the surgeon’s cap. There was to be no real surgery; trepanning wasn’t necessary, but aseptic precautions were taken as a matter of course.

The anesthetist and two other nurses stood ready, and Morrissey, in his white gown, seemed to have forgotten his worry and had settled down to his usual quiet competence. Gregson was on one of the tables, already prepped and unconscious. Intravenous anesthesia would presently supplement the apomorphine in his system, as it would also be administered to Bruno himself.

Ferguson and Dale, two other doctors, were present. At worst quick cerebral surgery might be necessary, if anything went badly amiss. But nothing could, Bruno thought. Nothing could.

He glanced at the sleek, shining machines, with their attachments and registering dials. Not medical equipment, of course. They were in Parsons’ line; he had planned and built them. But the idea had been Bruno’s to begin with, and Bruno’s psychiatric knowledge had complemented Parsons’ technology. Two branches of science had met, and the result would be—a specific for insanity.

Two spots on Bruno’s head had been shaved clean. Parsons carefully affixed electrodes, which were already in place on Gregson’s skull.

“Remember,” Parsons said, “you should be as relaxed as possible.”

“You took no sedative, Doctor,” Morrissey said.

“I don’t need one. The anesthetic will be enough.”

The nurses moved with silent competence about the table. The emergency oxygen apparatus was tested. The adrenalin was checked; the sterilizer steamed on its table. Bruno emptied his mind and relaxed as a nurse swabbed his arm with alcohol.

Superimposure of the electronic mental matrix of sanity … psychic rapport … the pattern of his sanity-dampers would be fixed unalterably in the twisted, warped mind of the manic-depressive.

He felt the sting of the needle. Automatically he began counting. One. Two. Three. …

He opened his eyes. The face of Morrissey, intent and abstracted, hung over him. Beyond Morrissey was the bright ceiling fluorescent, glaring down with a brilliance that made Bruno blink. His arm stung slightly but otherwise there were no after effects.

“Can you hear me, Doctor?” Morrissey said.

Bruno nodded. “Yes. I’m awake now.” His tongue was a little thick. That was natural. “Gregson?”

But Morrissey’s face was growing smaller. No, it was receding. The ceiling light shrank. He was falling—

He shot down with blinding rapidity. White walls rushed up past him. Morrissey’s face receded to a shining dot far above. It grew darker as he fell. Winds screamed, and there was a slow, gradually increasing thundering like an echo resounding from the floor of this monstrous abyss.

Down and down, faster and faster, with the white walls fading to gray and to black, till he was blind, till he was deafened with that roaring echo.

Visibility returned. Everything was out of focus. He blinked, swallowed, and made out the rectangular shape of a bedside screen. There was something else, white and irregular.

“Are you awake, Doctor?”

“Hello, Harwood,” Bruno said to the nurse. “How long have I been out?”

“About two hours. I’ll call Dr. Morrissey.”

She stepped out of the room. Bruno flexed his muscles experimentally. He felt all right. Not even a headache. His vision was normal now. He instinctively reached for his wrist and began counting the pulse. Through the window he could see the slow motion of a branch, the leaves fluttering in a gentle wind. Footsteps sounded.

“Congratulations,” Morrissey said, coming to the bed. “Gregson’s in shock, but he’s already beginning to come out of it. No prognosis yet, but I’ll bet a cookie you’ve done it.”

Bruno let out his breath in a long sigh. “You think so?”

Morrissey laughed. “Don’t tell me you weren’t sure!”

“I’m always sure,” Bruno said. “Just the same, confirmation’s always pleasant. I’m thirsty as the devil. Get me some ice, Ken, will you?”

“All right.” Morrissey leaned out of the door and called the nurse. Then he came back and lowered the Venetian blind. “Sun in your eyes. That better? How do you feel, or need I ask?”

“Quite normal. No ill effects at all. Say, you’d better notify Barbara I’m alive.”

“I already have. She’s coming over. Meanwhile, Parsons is outside. Want to see him?”

“Sure.”

The physicist must have been near the door, for he appeared almost instantly.

“I’ll have to depend on you now,” he said. “Psychiatric examinations are out of my line, but Dr. Morrissey tells me we’ve apparently succeeded.”

“We can’t be sure yet,” Bruno said cautiously, reaching for cracked ice. “I’m keeping my fingers crossed.”

“How do you feel?”

“If there’s a healthier specimen in this hospital than Dr. Bruno,” Morrissey said, “I’ve yet to hear of it. I’ll be back. I’ve got to check a patient.” He went out.

Bruno lay back on his pillow.

“I’ll be up and around tomorrow,” he said, “and I’ll want to make some tests on Gregson then. Meanwhile, I’ll relax—for a change. One good thing about this place; the routine’s so perfect that you can unhitch yourself completely and let yourself rest, if you want to. A dependable staff.”

The Venetian blind clattered in the wind. Parsons grunted and went toward it, taking hold of the cord.

He raised the blind and stood there, his back to Bruno. But it was dark outside the window.

“The sun was in my eyes,” Bruno said. “Wait a minute! That was only a little while ago. Parsons, something’s wrong!”

“What?” Parsons asked, without turning.

“Morrissey said I was unconscious for only two hours. And I took anesthesia at half-past nine. At night! But the sun was shining in that window when I woke up, a few minutes ago!”

“It’s night now,” Parsons said.

“It can’t be. Get Morrissey. I want to—”

But Parsons suddenly leaned forward and opened the window. Then he jumped out and vanished.

“Morrissey!” Bruno shouted.

Morrissey came in. He didn’t look at Bruno. He walked quickly across the room and jumped out of the window into the darkness.

Ferguson and Dale entered, still in their operating gowns. They followed Morrissey through the window.

Bruno hoisted himself up. Three nurses came through the door. An intern and an orderly followed. Then others.

In nightmare procession the staff filed into Bruno’s room. In deadly silence they walked to the window and jumped out.

The blankets slipped down from Bruno’s body. He saw them sail slowly toward the window—

The bed was tilting! No—the room itself was turning, revolving, till Bruno clung frantically to the headboard while gravity dragged him inexorably toward a window that now gaped directly below him.

The bed fell. It spilled Bruno out. He saw the oblong of the window opening like a mouth to swallow him. He plunged through into utter blackness, into an echoing, roaring hell of night and thunder. …

“Oh, good heavens!” Bruno moaned. “What a dream! Morrissey, get me a sedative!”

The psychiatrist laughed. “You’ve had a dream-within-a-dream before, haven’t you, Doctor? It sounds unnerving, but now you’ve told me all about it. The catharsis is better than a barbiturate.”

“I suppose so.” Bruno lay back in the bed.

This wasn’t the room he had dreamed about. It was much larger, and outside the windows was normal darkness. Morrissey had said that the anesthetic had lasted for several hours.

“Anyway, I’m jittery,” Bruno said.

“I didn’t know you had any nerves. … Here, Harwood.” Morrissey turned to the nurse and scribbled down a few symbols on a pad. “There. We’ll get your sedative. Don’t you want to know about Gregson?”

“I’d forgotten about him completely,” Bruno acknowledged. “Can you tell anything definite yet?”

“We caught him on the downcurve of the depressive cycle, remember? Well, he isn’t talking yet, but there’s a touch of euphoria. The elation will wear off. One thing, you’ve broken the cycle. His mind isn’t adjusted yet to those—damper bars you put in ’em, but offhand, I’d say it looks pretty good.”

“What does Parsons think?”

“He’s immersed in calculations. Said he’d be around to see you as soon as you woke up. Here’s that sedative.”

Bruno accepted the capsules from the nurse and washed them down with water.

“Thanks. I’d rather rest a bit. I must have unconsciously piled up quite a lot of tension.”

“So I gather,” Morrissey said drily. “Well, here’s the bell-cord. Anything else?”

“Just rest.” Bruno hesitated. “Oh—one thing.” He extended his arm. “Pinch it.”

Morrissey stared and chuckled.

“Still not sure you’re awake? I can assure you you are, Doctor. I’m not going to jump out of the window. And it’s still night, you’ll notice.”

When Bruno didn’t move, Morrissey pinched up a fold of the other’s forearm between thumb and finger.

“Ouch!” Bruno said. “Thanks.”

“Any time,” Morrissey said cheerfully. “Get some rest now. I’ll be back.”

He went out with the nurse. Bruno blew out his breath and let his gaze wander around the room. Everything looked perfectly solid and normal. No black, thundering abyss lurked under the floor. An unpleasant dream!

He reached for pad and pencil and made careful notes on the curious double-delusion before he let himself relax. Then he felt the sedative creeping slowly along his nerves, a warm, pleasant sensation that he was glad to encourage. He didn’t want to think. Later would be time enough. The empathy surrogate experiment, Gregson, the physicist Parsons, Barbara—later!

He drowsed. It seemed only a moment before he opened his eyes to see sunlight beyond the window. Brief panic touched him, then he looked at his wristwatch and was reassured to see that it said eleven o’clock. He could hear the muffled sounds of the ordinary hospital routine going on outside door and window. Presently, feeling refreshed, he got up and dressed.

In Nurse Harwood’s office he telephoned Morrissey, exchanged brief greetings, and then went to his own office to shower and shave.

He telephoned Barbara.

“Hello, there,” she said. “Morrissey notified me you were doing all right. So I thought I’d wait till you woke up.”

“I’m awake now. Suppose I come over to the house for lunch?”

“Swell. I’ll be waiting.”

“Half an hour, then?”

“Half an hour. I’m glad you called, Bob. I was worried.”

“You needn’t have been.”

“Was your experiment a success?”

“Can’t tell yet. Keep your fingers crossed.”

Ten minutes later Bruno’s fingers were still crossed as he examined Gregson. Parsons and Morrissey were present. The physicist kept making notes, but Morrissey stood silent and watchful.

There was very little to be seen as yet. Gregson lay in his bed, the shaved spots on his head white against the dark hair, his features relaxed and peaceful. The typical anxiety expression was gone. Bruno opened the man’s eyes and flashed his light into them. Contraction of the pupils seemed normal.

“Can you hear me, Gregson?”

Gregson’s lips moved. But he said nothing.

“It’s all right. You’re feeling fine, aren’t you? You’re not worried about anything, are you?”

“Headache,” Gregson said. “Bad headache.”

“We’ll give you something for that. Now try to sleep.”

Outside, in the corridor, Bruno tried hard to repress his exultation. Parsons blinked at him, scowling.

“Can you tell anything yet?”

Bruno checked himself. “No. It’s too soon. But—”

“The manic-depressive phase is passed,” Morrissey put in. “He seems rational. And he hasn’t been for three years.”

“Those damper bars—” Bruno smiled. “Well, we’ll have to wait and see. We can’t write up a report yet. He’s certainly oriented. We’ll give him a chance to rest. More tests later. I don’t want to jump the gun.”

But with Barbara he let himself be more enthusiastic.

“We’ve done it, Barbara! Found a specific for insanity.”

She leaned across the table to pour coffee.

“I thought there were so many types of psychosis that the treatment varied considerably.”

“Well, that’s true, but we’ve never got to the real basis of the trouble before. You can cure a cold by rest therapy, force fluids and aspirin, but cold vaccine gets directly to the root of the trouble. Some types of insanity have been thought incurable, but tetanus was incurable till we got a vaccine for it. The empathy surrogate therapy is the lowest common denominator. It works on the electronic structure of the mind, and unless there’s physical deterioration, as in advanced paresis, our treatment should work beautifully.”

“So that’s what you were working on,” Barbara said. “Bob, you don’t know how glad I am that it’s successful.”

“Well—we hope. We’re almost sure. But—”

“You can take a vacation now? You’ve been working so hard!”

“A few more weeks, and I’ll be ready. I’ve got to collate my notes. I can’t run out on Parsons at this stage. But very soon, I promise.”

He looked up to see her smile. Suddenly he stiffened. Her smile was broadening, stretching, the lower lip dropping till all her teeth showed. The lower lids of her eyes hung … stretched. …

Her nose lengthened.

Her eyes slowly crawled out of their sockets and lengthened on dreadful stalks down her cheeks.

She melted down and out of sight beneath the table.

The table began to sink.

And now everything around him was melting. Under him the chair became plastic and then fluid. The floor was a bowl, and the walls were dripping down into it, into a shining whirlpool at the center.

He slipped helplessly along that slope till the pool engulfed him, in a chaos of thunder and confusion and sickening horror.

The winds bellowed. … The empty drop closed around him. … He fell in darkness. …

This time, when he woke, he wasn’t sure. The panic had not left him. He learned, later, that he had been semi-delirious for eight days, and only Morrissey’s unceasing attention had kept him reasonably quiet. Then there were weeks of convalescence, and a vacation, and it seemed a long time before he came back from Florida, tanned and healthy, to resume his duties.

Even then, though, there was the fear.

When he drove toward the blocky buildings of the sanitarium he felt a touch of it brush him. He reached for Barbara’s hand, and felt some comfort in the assurance of her nearness. She had been helpful, too, though she had not understood.

Every day after that, when he left her, there was a fleeting apprehension lest he never see her again. To forget the uncertainty of his footing, the ground that was no longer absolutely solid, he plunged into the hospital’s routine. And gradually, after more weeks, the terror began to leave him.

Gregson had been cured. He was still under precautionary observation, but all traces of his psychosis seemed to have vanished. There were still minor neuroses, the natural result of the past six years of abnormal restraint, but they were disappearing under proper therapy. The empathy surrogate treatment was successful. Yet, for a while, Bruno refused to attempt more experiments.

Parsons was displeased. He was anxious to chart a graph on the process, and one trial did not provide enough evidence. Bruno kept putting the physicist off with promises. It eventually ended in a minor spat which Morrissey halted by pointing out that Dr. Robert Bruno was, technically, his own patient, and was not yet ready for further research on the dangerous subject.

Parsons, furious, went off. Bruno followed Morrissey into the latter’s office and sat down in one of the more comfortable chairs. It was mid-afternoon, and beyond the windows the drowsy hum of summer made a peaceful counterpoint to the conversation.

“Cigarette, Ken?”

“Thanks. … Look, Bob.” The two men had drawn closer together in the last weeks. Morrissey no longer addressed his Chief of Staff with the former “Doctor.” “I’ve been collating the facts of your case, and I think I’ve got at the root of the trouble. Do you want to hear my diagnosis?”

“Candidly, I don’t,” Bruno said, closing his eyes and inhaling smoke. “I’d prefer to forget it. But I know I can’t. That would be psychically ruinous.”

“You had a cyclic self-containing dream—I suppose you could call it that. You dreamed you were dreaming you were dreaming. You know what your trouble is?”

“Well?”

“You’re not sure you’re awake now.”

“Oh, I’m sure enough,” Bruno said. “Most of the time.”

“You’ve got to be sure all the time. Or else make yourself believe that it doesn’t matter whether you’re dreaming or waking.”

“Doesn’t matter! Ken! To know that everything may melt away under my feet at any time, and to think that doesn’t matter! That’s impossible!”

“Then you’ve got to be sure you’re awake. Those hallucinations you had are over. Weeks have passed.”

“Hallucinatory time is elastic and subjective.”

“It’s a defense mechanism—you know that, I suppose?”

“Defense against what?”

Morrissey moistened his lips. “Remember, I’m the psychiatrist and you’re the patient. You were psychoanalyzed when you studied psychiatry, but you didn’t get all the devils out of your subconscious. Hang it, Bob, you know very well that most psychiatrists take up the work because they’re attracted to it for pathological reasons—neuroses of their own. Why did you always insist that you were so utterly sure of everything?”

“I always made sure.”

“Compensation. To allow for a basic unsureness and insecurity in your own makeup. Consciously you were sure the empathy surrogate treatment would work, but your unconscious mind wasn’t so certain. You never let yourself know that, though. But it came out under stress—the therapy itself.”

“Go on,” Bruno said slowly.

Morrissey tapped the papers on his desk.

“I know my diagnosis is pretty accurate, but you can decide that for yourself. You can tell, perhaps, better than I can. The frontiers of the mind are terra incognita. Your simile of a uranium pile was better than you’d realized. When critical mass is approached, there’s danger. And the damper bars in your own mind—what did Parsons’ machine do to them?”

“I am quite sane,” Bruno said. “I think.”

“Sure you are, now. You’re getting over that explosion. You’d been building up an anxiety neurosis, and the therapy made it blow off. Just how, I don’t understand. The electronic patterns of the mind aren’t in my field. All I know is that the experiment with Gregson removed the safety blocks from your mind, and you lost control for a while. Thus the hallucinations, which simply followed the path of least resistance. Point One: You’re afraid of insecurity and unsureness, and you always have been. Thus your dream follows a familiarly symbolic pattern. At any time the sureness of waking may vanish. Point Two: As long as you think you’re dreaming, you’re dodging responsibility!”

“Good Lord, Ken!” Bruno said. “I just want to be sure I’m awake!”

“And there’s absolutely no way you can be sure of that,” Morrissey said. “The conviction must come from your own mind and be subjective. No objective proof is possible. Otherwise, if you fail to convince yourself, the anxiety neurosis will grow back into a psychosis, and—” He shrugged.

“It sounds logical,” Bruno said. “I’m beginning to see it pretty clearly. I think, perhaps, this clarification is what I needed.”

“Do you think you’re dreaming now?”

“Not at the moment—certainly.”

“Swell,” Morrissey said. “Because the conglobulation of the psych between the forever and upstriding kaleeno bystixing forinder saan—”

Bruno jumped up. “Ken!” he said, dry-throated. “Stop it!”

“Fylixar catween baleeza—”

“Stop it!”

“Byzinderkona repstilling and always always always never knowing never knowing never knowing—”

The words came out in great whirling shining globes. They raced past Bruno’s head with a screaming hiss. They bombarded him. They carried him back into a thundering, windy abyss of blackness and terror.

Morrissey stepped back from the bed and asked:

Dr. Robert Bruno managed to nod.

“Good,” Morrissey said. “You were out for about three hours. But everything’s going nicely. You’ll be up and around pretty soon. There’s plenty to be done. Barbara wants to see you—and Parsons.”

“Ken,” Bruno said, “wait a minute. Am I awake now? I mean, really awake?”

Morrissey stared and grinned.

“Sure,” he said. “I can guarantee that.”

But Bruno did not answer. His gaze moved to the windows, to the solidity of the walls and ceiling, to the reality of his own hands and arms.

Never knowing?

He looked at Morrissey, waiting for Morrissey to vanish, and the black pit to open again beneath him.

Don’t Look Now

The man in the brown suit was looking at himself in the mirror behind the bar. The reflection seemed to interest him even more deeply than the drink between his hands. He was paying only perfunctory attention to Lyman’s attempts at conversation. This had been going on for perhaps fifteen minutes before he finally lifted his glass and took a deep swallow.

“Don’t look now,” Lyman said.

The brown man slid his eyes sidewise toward Lyman; tilted his glass higher, and took another swig. Ice-cubes slipped down toward his mouth. He put the glass back on the red-brown wood and signaled for a refill. Finally he took a deep breath and looked at Lyman.

“Don’t look at what?” he asked.

“There was one sitting right beside you,” Lyman said, blinking rather glazed eyes. “He just went out. You mean you couldn’t see him?”

The brown man finished paying for his fresh drink before he answered. “See who?” he asked, with a fine mixture of boredom, distaste and reluctant interest. “Who went out?”

“What have I been telling you for the last ten minutes? Weren’t you listening?”

“Certainly I was listening. That is—certainly. You were talking about—bathtubs. Radios. Orson—”

“Not Orson. H. G. Herbert George. With Orson it was just a gag. H. G. knew—or suspected. I wonder if it was simply intuition with him? He couldn’t have had any proof—but he did stop writing science-fiction rather suddenly, didn’t he? I’ll bet he knew once, though.”

“Knew what?”

“About the Martians. All this won’t do us a bit of good if you don’t listen. It may not anyway. The trick is to jump the gun—with proof. Convincing evidence. Nobody’s ever been allowed to produce the evidence before. You are a reporter, aren’t you?”

Holding his glass, the man in the brown suit nodded reluctantly.

“Then you ought to be taking it all down on a piece of folded paper. I want everybody to know. The whole world. It’s important. Terribly important. It explains everything. My life won’t be safe unless I can pass along the information and make people believe it.”

“Why won’t your life be safe?”

“Because of the Martians, you fool. They own the world.”

The brown man sighed. “Then they own my newspaper, too,” he objected, “so I can’t print anything they don’t like.”

“I never thought of that,” Lyman said, considering the bottom of his glass, where two ice-cubes had fused into a cold, immutable union. “They’re not omnipotent, though. I’m sure they’re vulnerable, or why have they always kept under cover? They’re afraid of being found out. If the world had convincing evidence—look, people always believe what they read in the newspapers. Couldn’t you—”

“Ha,” said the brown man with deep significance.

Lyman drummed sadly on the bar and murmured, “There must be some way. Perhaps if I had another drink. …”

The brown suited man tasted his collins, which seemed to stimulate him. “Just what is all this about Martians?” he asked Lyman. “Suppose you start at the beginning and tell me again. Or can’t you remember?”

“Of course I can remember. I’ve got practically total recall. It’s something new. Very new. I never could do it before. I can even remember my last conversation with the Martians.” Lyman favored the brown man with a glance of triumph.

“When was that?”

“This morning.”

“I can even remember conversations I had last week,” the brown man said mildly. “So what?”

“You don’t understand. They make us forget, you see. They tell us what to do and we forget about the conversation—it’s post-hypnotic suggestion, I expect—but we follow their orders just the same. There’s the compulsion, though we think we’re making our own decisions. Oh, they own the world, all right, but nobody knows it except me.”

“And how did you find out?”

“Well, I got my brain scrambled, in a way. I’ve been fooling around with supersonic detergents, trying to work out something marketable, you know. The gadget went wrong—from some standpoints. High-frequency waves, it was. They went through and through me. Should have been inaudible, but I could hear them, or rather—well, actually I could see them. That’s what I mean about my brain being scrambled. And after that, I could see and hear the Martians. They’ve geared themselves so they work efficiently on ordinary brains, and mine isn’t ordinary any more. They can’t hypnotize me, either. They can command me, but I needn’t obey—now. I hope they don’t suspect. Maybe they do. Yes, I guess they do.”

“How can you tell?”

“The way they look at me.”

“How do they look at you?” asked the brown man, as he began to reach for a pencil and then changed his mind. He took a drink instead. “Well? What are they like?”

“I’m not sure. I can see them, all right, but only when they’re dressed up.”

“Okay, okay,” the brown man said patiently. “How do they look, dressed up?”

“Just like anybody, almost. They dress up in—in human skins. Oh, not real ones, imitations. Like the Katzenjammer Kids zipped into crocodile suits. Undressed—I don’t know. I’ve never seen one. Maybe they’re invisible even to me, then, or maybe they’re just camouflaged. Ants or owls or rats or bats or—”

“Or anything,” the brown man said hastily.

“Thanks. Or anything, of course. But when they’re dressed up like humans—like that one who was sitting next to you awhile ago, when I told you not to look—”

“That one was invisible, I gather?”

“Most of the time they are, to everybody. But once in a while, for some reason, they—”

“Wait,” the brown man objected. “Make sense, will you? They dress up in human skins and then sit around invisible?”

“Only now and then. The human skins are perfectly good imitations. Nobody can tell the difference. It’s that third eye that gives them away. When they keep it closed, you’d never guess it was there. When they want to open it, they go invisible—like that. Fast. When I see somebody with a third eye, right in the middle of his forehead, I know he’s a Martian and invisible, and I pretend not to notice him.”

“Uh-huh,” the brown man said. “Then for all you know, I’m one of your visible Martians.”

“Oh, I hope not!” Lyman regarded him anxiously. “Drunk as I am, I don’t think so. I’ve been trailing you all day, making sure. It’s a risk I have to take, of course. They’ll go to any length—any length at all—to make a man give himself away. I realize that. I can’t really trust anybody. But I had to find someone to talk to, and I—” He paused. There was a brief silence. “I could be wrong,” Lyman said presently. “When the third eye’s closed, I can’t tell if it’s there. Would you mind opening your third eye for me?” He fixed a dim gaze on the brown man’s forehead.

“Sorry,” the reporter said. “Some other time. Besides, I don’t know you. So you want me to splash this across the front page, I gather? Why didn’t you go to see the managing editor? My stories have to get past the desk and rewrite.”

“I want to give my secret to the world,” Lyman said stubbornly. “The question is, how far will I get? You’d expect they’d have killed me the minute I opened my mouth to you—except that I didn’t say anything while they were here. I don’t believe they take us very seriously, you know. This must have been going on since the dawn of history, and by now they’ve had time to get careless. They let Fort go pretty far before they cracked down on him. But you notice they were careful never to let Fort get hold of genuine proof that would convince people.”

The brown man said something under his breath about a human interest story in a box. He asked, “What do the Martians do, besides hang around bars all dressed up?”

“I’m still working on that,” Lyman said. “It isn’t easy to understand. They run the world, of course, but why?” He wrinkled his brow and stared appealingly at the brown man. “Why?”

“If they do run it, they’ve got a lot to explain.”

“That’s what I mean. From our viewpoint, there’s no sense to it. We do things illogically, but only because they tell us to. Everything we do, almost, is pure illogic. Poe’s ‘Imp of the Perverse’—you could give it another name beginning with M. Martian, I mean. It’s all very well for psychologists to explain why a murderer wants to confess, but it’s still an illogical reaction. Unless a Martian commands him to.”

“You can’t be hypnotized into doing anything that violates your moral sense,” the brown man said triumphantly.

Lyman frowned. “Not by another human, but you can by a Martian. I expect they got the upper hand when we didn’t have more than ape-brains, and they’ve kept it ever since. They evolved as we did, and kept a step ahead. Like the sparrow on the eagle’s back who hitchhiked till the eagle reached his ceiling, and then took off and broke the altitude record. They conquered the world, but nobody ever knew it. And they’ve been ruling ever since.”

“But—”

“Take houses, for example. Uncomfortable things. Ugly, inconvenient, dirty, everything wrong with them. But when men like Frank Lloyd Wright slip out from under the Martians’ thumb long enough to suggest something better, look how the people react. They hate the thought. That’s their Martians, giving them orders.”

“Look. Why should the Martians care what kind of houses we live in? Tell me that.”

Lyman frowned. “I don’t like the note of skepticism I detect creeping into this conversation,” he announced. “They care, all right. No doubt about it. They live in our houses. We don’t build for our convenience, we build, under order, for the Martians, the way they want it. They’re very much concerned with everything we do. And the more senseless, the more concern.

“Take wars. Wars don’t make sense from any human viewpoint. Nobody really wants wars. But we go right on having them. From the Martian viewpoint, they’re useful. They give us a spurt in technology, and they reduce the excess population. And there are lots of other results, too. Colonization, for one thing. But mainly technology. In peace time, if a guy invents jet-propulsion, it’s too expensive to develop commercially. In wartime, though, it’s got to be developed. Then the Martians can use it whenever they want. They use us the way they’d use tools or—or limbs. And nobody ever really wins a war—except the Martians.”

The man in the brown suit chuckled. “That makes sense,” he said. “It must be nice to be a Martian.”

“Why not? Up till now, no race ever successfully conquered and ruled another. The underdog could revolt or absorb. If you know you’re being ruled, then the ruler’s vulnerable. But if the world doesn’t know—and it doesn’t—

“Take radios,” Lyman continued, going off at a tangent. “There’s no earthly reason why a sane human should listen to a radio. But the Martians make us do it. They like it. Take bathtubs. Nobody contends bathtubs are comfortable—for us. But they’re fine for Martians. All the impractical things we keep on using, even though we know they’re impractical—”

“Typewriter ribbons,” the brown man said, struck by the thought. “But not even a Martian could enjoy changing a typewriter ribbon.”

Lyman seemed to find that flippant. He said that he knew all about the Martians except for one thing—their psychology.

“I don’t know why they act as they do. It looks illogical sometimes, but I feel perfectly sure they’ve got sound motives for every move they make. Until I get that worked out I’m pretty much at a standstill. Until I get evidence—proof—and help. I’ve got to stay under cover till then. And I’ve been doing that. I do what they tell me, so they won’t suspect, and I pretend to forget what they tell me to forget.”

“Then you’ve got nothing much to worry about.”

Lyman paid no attention. He was off again on a list of his grievances.

“When I hear the water running in the tub and a Martian splashing around, I pretend I don’t hear a thing. My bed’s too short and I tried last week to order a special length, but the Martian that sleeps there told me not to. He’s a runt, like most of them. That is, I think they’re runts. I have to deduce, because you never see them undressed. But it goes on like that constantly. By the way, how’s your Martian?”

The man in the brown suit set down his glass rather suddenly.

“My Martian?”

“Now listen. I may be just a little bit drunk, but my logic remains unimpaired. I can still put two and two together. Either you know about the Martians, or you don’t. If you do, there’s no point in giving me that, ‘What, my Martian?’ routine. I know you have a Martian. Your Martian knows you have a Martian. My Martian knows. The point is, do you know? Think hard,” Lyman urged solicitously.

“No, I haven’t got a Martian,” the reporter said, taking a quick drink. The edge of the glass clicked against his teeth.

“Nervous, I see,” Lyman remarked. “Of course you have got a Martian. I suspect you know it.”

“What would I be doing with a Martian?” the brown man asked with dogged dogmatism.

“What would you be doing without one? I imagine it’s illegal. If they caught you running around without one they’d probably put you in a pound or something until claimed. Oh, you’ve got one, all right. So have I. So has he, and he, and he—and the bartender.” Lyman enumerated the other barflies with a wavering forefinger.

“Of course they have,” the brown man said. “But they’ll all go back to Mars tomorrow and then you can see a good doctor. You’d better have another dri—”

He was turning toward the bartender when Lyman, apparently by accident, leaned close to him and whispered urgently,

“Don’t look now!”

The brown man glanced at Lyman’s white face reflected in the mirror before them.

“It’s all right,” he said. “There aren’t any Mar—”

Lyman gave him a fierce, quick kick under the edge of the bar.

“Shut up! One just came in!”

And then he caught the brown man’s gaze and with elaborate unconcern said, “—so naturally, there was nothing for me to do but climb out on the roof after it. Took me ten minutes to get it down the ladder, and just as we reached the bottom it gave one bound, climbed up my face, sprang from the top of my head, and there it was again on the roof, screaming for me to get it down.”

“What?” the brown man demanded with pardonable curiosity.

“My cat, of course. What did you think? No, never mind, don’t answer that.” Lyman’s face was turned to the brown man’s, but from the corners of his eyes he was watching an invisible progress down the length of the bar toward a booth at the very back.

“Now why did he come in?” he murmured. “I don’t like this. Is he anyone you know?”

“Is who—?”

“That Martian. Yours, by any chance? No, I suppose not. Yours was probably the one who went out a while ago. I wonder if he went to make a report, and sent this one in? It’s possible. It could be. You can talk now, but keep your voice low, and stop squirming. Want him to notice we can see him?”

“I can’t see him. Don’t drag me into this. You and your Martians can fight it out together. You’re making me nervous. I’ve got to go, anyway.” But he didn’t move to get off the stool. Across Lyman’s shoulder he was stealing glances toward the back of the bar, and now and then he looked at Lyman’s face.

“Stop watching me,” Lyman said. “Stop watching him. Anybody’d think you were a cat.”

“Why a cat? Why should anybody—do I look like a cat?”

“We were talking about cats, weren’t we? Cats can see them, quite clearly. Even undressed, I believe. They don’t like them.”

“Who doesn’t like who?”

“Whom. Neither likes the other. Cats can see Martians—sh‑h!—but they pretend not to, and that makes the Martians mad. I have a theory that cats ruled the world before Martians came. Never mind. Forget about cats. This may be more serious than you think. I happen to know my Martian’s taking tonight off, and I’m pretty sure that was your Martian who went out some time ago. And have you noticed that nobody else in here has his Martian with him? Do you suppose—” His voice sank. “Do you suppose they could be waiting for us outside?”

“Oh, Lord,” the brown man said. “In the alley with the cats, I suppose.”

“Why don’t you stop this yammer about cats and be serious for a moment?” Lyman demanded, and then paused, paled, and reeled slightly on his stool. He hastily took a drink to cover his confusion.

“What’s the matter now?” the brown man asked.

“Nothing.” Gulp. “Nothing. It was just that—he looked at me. With—you know.”

“Let me get this straight. I take it the Martian is dressed in—is dressed like a human?”

“Naturally.”

“But he’s invisible to all eyes but yours?”

“Yes. He doesn’t want to be visible, just now. Besides—” Lyman paused cunningly. He gave the brown man a furtive glance and then looked quickly down at his drink. “Besides, you know, I rather think you can see him—a little, anyway.”

The brown man was perfectly silent for about thirty seconds. He sat quite motionless, not even the ice in the drink he held clinking. One might have thought he did not even breathe. Certainly he did not blink.

“What makes you think that?” he asked in a normal voice, after the thirty seconds had run out.

“I—did I say anything? I wasn’t listening.” Lyman put down his drink abruptly. “I think I’ll go now.”

“No, you won’t,” the brown man said, closing his fingers around Lyman’s wrist. “Not yet you won’t. Come back here. Sit down. Now. What was the idea? Where were you going?”

Lyman nodded dumbly toward the back of the bar, indicating either a jukebox or a door marked Men.

“I don’t feel so good. Maybe I’ve had too much to drink. I guess I’ll—”

“You’re all right. I don’t trust you back there with that—that invisible man of yours. You’ll stay right here until he leaves.”

“He’s going now,” Lyman said brightly. His eyes moved with great briskness along the line of an invisible but rapid progress toward the front door. “See, he’s gone. Now let me loose, will you?”

The brown man glanced toward the back booth.

“No,” he said, “he isn’t gone. Sit right where you are.”

It was Lyman’s turn to remain quite still, in a stricken sort of way, for a perceptible while. The ice in his drink, however, clinked audibly. Presently he spoke. His voice was soft, and rather soberer than before.

“You’re right. He’s still there. You can see him, can’t you?”

The brown man said, “Has he got his back to us?”

“You can see him, then. Better than I can maybe. Maybe there are more of them here than I thought. They could be anywhere. They could be sitting beside you anywhere you go, and you wouldn’t even guess, until—” He shook his head a little. “They’d want to be sure,” he said, mostly to himself. “They can give you orders and make you forget, but there must be limits to what they can force you to do. They can’t make a man betray himself. They’d have to lead him on—until they were sure.”

He lifted his drink and tipped it steeply above his face. The ice ran down the slope and bumped coldly against his lip, but he held it until the last of the pale, bubbling amber had drained into his mouth. He set the glass on the bar and faced the brown man.

“Well?” he said.

The brown man looked up and down the bar.

“It’s getting late,” he said. “Not many people left. We’ll wait.”

“Wait for what?”

The brown man looked toward the back booth and looked away again quickly.

“I have something to show you. I don’t want anyone else to see.”

Lyman surveyed the narrow, smoky room. As he looked the last customer beside themselves at the bar began groping in his pocket, tossed some change on the mahogany, and went out slowly.

They sat in silence. The bartender eyed them with stolid disinterest. Presently a couple in the front booth got up and departed, quarreling in undertones.

“Is there anyone left?” the brown man asked in a voice that did not carry down the bar to the man in the apron.

“Only—” Lyman did not finish, but he nodded gently toward the back of the room. “He isn’t looking. Let’s get this over with. What do you want to show me?”

The brown man took off his wristwatch and pried up the metal case. Two small, glossy photograph prints slid out. The brown man separated them with a finger.

“I just want to make sure of something,” he said. “First—why did you pick me out? Quite a while ago, you said you’d been trailing me all day, making sure. I haven’t forgotten that. And you knew I was a reporter. Suppose you tell me the truth, now?”

Squirming on his stool, Lyman scowled. “It was the way you looked at things,” he murmured. “On the subway this morning—I’d never seen you before in my life, but I kept noticing the way you looked at things—the wrong things, things that weren’t there, the way a cat does—and then you’d always look away—I got the idea you could see the Martians too.”

“Go on,” the brown man said quietly.

“I followed you. All day. I kept hoping you’d turn out to be—somebody I could talk to. Because if I could know that I wasn’t the only one who could see them, then I’d know there was still some hope left. It’s been worse than solitary confinement. I’ve been able to see them for three years now. Three years. And I’ve managed to keep my power a secret even from them. And, somehow, I’ve managed to keep from killing myself, too.”

“Three years?” the brown man said. He shivered.

“There was always a little hope. I knew nobody would believe—not without proof. And how can you get proof? It was only that I—I kept telling myself that maybe you could see them too, and if you could, maybe there were others—lots of others—enough so we might get together and work out some way of proving to the world—”

The brown man’s fingers were moving. In silence he pushed a photograph across the mahogany. Lyman picked it up unsteadily.

“Moonlight?” he asked after a moment. It was a landscape under a deep, dark sky with white clouds in it. Trees stood white and lacy against the darkness. The grass was white as if with moonlight, and the shadows blurry.

“No, not moonlight,” the brown man said. “Infrared. I’m strictly an amateur, but lately I’ve been experimenting with infrared film. And I got some very odd results.”

Lyman stared at the film.

“You see, I live near—” The brown man’s finger tapped a certain quite common object that appeared in the photograph. “—and something funny keeps showing up now and then against it. But only with infrared film. Now I know chlorophyll reflects so much infrared light that grass and leaves photograph white. The sky comes out black, like this. There are tricks to using this kind of film. Photograph a tree against a cloud, and you can’t tell them apart in the print. But you can photograph through a haze and pick out distant objects the ordinary film wouldn’t catch. And sometimes, when you focus on something like this—” He tapped the image of the very common object again, “you get a very odd image on the film. Like that. A man with three eyes.”

Lyman held the print up to the light. In silence he took the other one from the bar and studied it. When he laid them down he was smiling.

“You know,” Lyman said in a conversational whisper, “a professor of astrophysics at one of the more important universities had a very interesting little item in the Times the other Sunday. Name of Spitzer, I think. He said that, if there were life on Mars, and if Martians had ever visited earth, there’d be no way to prove it. Nobody would believe the few men who saw them. Not, he said, unless the Martians happened to be photographed. …”

Lyman looked at the brown man thoughtfully.

“Well,” he said, “it’s happened. You’ve photographed them.”

The brown man nodded. He took up the prints and returned them to his watch-case. “I thought so, too. Only until tonight I couldn’t be sure. I’d never seen one—fully—as you have. It isn’t so much a matter of what you call getting your brain scrambled with supersonics as it is of just knowing where to look. But I’ve been seeing part of them all my life, and so has everybody. It’s that little suggestion of movement you never catch except just at the edge of your vision, just out of the corner of your eye. Something that’s almost there—and when you look fully at it, there’s nothing. These photographs showed me the way. It’s not easy to learn, but it can be done. We’re conditioned to look directly at a thing—the particular thing we want to see clearly, whatever it is. Perhaps the Martians gave us that conditioning. When we see a movement at the edge of our range of vision, it’s almost irresistible not to look directly at it. So it vanishes.”

“Then they can be seen—by anybody?”

“I’ve learned a lot in a few days,” the brown man said. “Since I took those photographs. You have to train yourself. It’s like seeing a trick picture—one that’s really a composite, after you study it. Camouflage. You just have to learn how. Otherwise we can look at them all our lives and never see them.”

“The camera does, though.”

“Yes, the camera does. I’ve wondered why nobody ever caught them this way before. Once you see them on film, they’re unmistakable—that third eye.”

“Infrared film’s comparatively new, isn’t it? And then I’ll bet you have to catch them against that one particular background—you know—or they won’t show on the film. Like trees against clouds. It’s tricky. You must have had just the right lighting that day, and exactly the right focus, and the lens stopped down just right. A kind of minor miracle. It might never happen again exactly that way. But … don’t look now.”

They were silent. Furtively, they watched the mirror. Their eyes slid along toward the open door of the tavern.

And then there was a long, breathless silence.

“He looked back at us,” Lyman said very quietly. “He looked at us … that third eye!”

The brown man was motionless again. When he moved, it was to swallow the rest of his drink.

“I don’t think that they’re suspicious yet,” he said. “The trick will be to keep under cover until we can blow this thing wide open. There’s got to be some way to do it—some way that will convince people.”

“There’s proof. The photographs. A competent cameraman ought to be able to figure out just how you caught that Martian on film and duplicate the conditions. It’s evidence.”

“Evidence can cut both ways,” the brown man said. “What I’m hoping is that the Martians don’t really like to kill—unless they have to. I’m hoping they won’t kill without proof. But—” He tapped his wristwatch.

“There’s two of us now, though,” Lyman said. “We’ve got to stick together. Both of us have broken the big rule—don’t look now—”

The bartender was at the back, disconnecting the jukebox. The brown man said, “We’d better not be seen together unnecessarily. But if we both come to this bar tomorrow night at nine for a drink—that wouldn’t look suspicious, even to them.”

“Suppose—” Lyman hesitated. “May I have one of those photographs?”

“Why?”

“If one of us had—an accident—the other one would still have the proof. Enough, maybe, to convince the right people.”

The brown man hesitated, nodded shortly, and opened his watch-case again. He gave Lyman one of the pictures.

“Hide it,” he said. “It’s—evidence. I’ll see you here tomorrow. Meanwhile, be careful. Remember to play safe.”

They shook hands firmly, facing each other in an endless second of final, decisive silence. Then the brown man turned abruptly and walked out of the bar.

Lyman sat there. Between two wrinkles in his forehead there was a stir and a flicker of lashes unfurling. The third eye opened slowly and looked after the brown man.

The Ego Machine

I

Nicholas Martin looked up at the robot across the desk.

“I’m not going to ask what you want,” he said, in a low, restrained voice. “I already know. Just go away and tell St. Cyr I approve. Tell him I think it’s wonderful, putting a robot in the picture. We’ve had everything else by now, except the Rockettes. But clearly a quiet little play about Christmas among the Portuguese fishermen on the Florida coast must have a robot. Only, why not six robots? Tell him I suggest a baker’s dozen. Go away.”

“Was your mother’s name Helena Glinska?” the robot asked.

“It was not,” Martin said.

“Ah, then she must have been the Great Hairy One,” the robot murmured.

Martin took his feet off the desk and sat up slowly.

“It’s quite all right,” the robot said hastily. “You’ve been chosen for an ecological experiment, that’s all. But it won’t hurt. Robots are perfectly normal life forms where I come from, so you needn’t—”

“Shut up,” Martin said. “Robot indeed, you—you bit-player! This time St. Cyr has gone too far.” He began to shake slightly all over, with some repressed but strong emotion. The intercom box on the desk caught his eye, and he stabbed a finger at one of the switches. “Get me Miss Ashby! Right away!”

“I’m so sorry,” the robot said apologetically. “Have I made a mistake? The threshold fluctuations in the neurons always upset my mnemonic norm when I temporalize. Isn’t this a crisis-point in your life?”

Martin breathed hard, which seemed to confirm the robot’s assumption.

“Exactly,” it said. “The ecological imbalance approaches a peak that may destroy the life-form, unless … mm‑m. Now either you’re about to be stepped on by a mammoth, locked in an iron mask, assassinated by helots, or—is this Sanskrit I’m speaking?” He shook his gleaming head. “Perhaps I should have got off fifty years ago, but I thought—sorry. Goodbye,” he added hastily as Martin raised an angry glare.

Then the robot lifted a finger to each corner of his naturally rigid mouth, and moved his fingers horizontally in opposite directions, as though sketching an apologetic smile.

“No, don’t go away,” Martin said. “I want you right here, where the sight of you can refuel my rage in case it’s needed. I wish to God I could get mad and stay mad,” he added plaintively, gazing at the telephone.

“Are you sure your mother’s name wasn’t Helena Glinska?” the robot asked. It pinched thumb and forefinger together between its nominal brows, somehow giving the impression of a worried frown.

“Naturally I’m sure,” Martin snapped.

“You aren’t married yet, then? To Anastasia Zakharina-Koshkina?”

“Not yet or ever,” Martin replied succinctly. The telephone rang. He snatched it up.

“Hello, Nick,” said Erika Ashby’s calm voice. “Something wrong?”

Instantly the fires of rage went out of Martin’s eyes, to be replaced by a tender, rose-pink glow. For some years now he had given Erika, his very competent agent, ten percent of his take. He had also longed hopelessly to give her approximately a pound of flesh—the cardiac muscle, to put it in cold, unromantic terms. Martin did not; he put it in no terms at all, since whenever he tried to propose marriage to Erika he was taken with such fits of modesty that he could only babble o’ green fields.

“Well,” Erika repeated. “Something wrong?”

“Yes,” Martin said, drawing a long breath. “Can St. Cyr make me marry somebody named Anastasia Zakharina-Koshkina?”

“What a wonderful memory you have,” the robot put in mournfully. “Mine used to be, before I started temporalizing. But even radioactive neurons won’t stand—”

“Nominally you’re still entitled to life, liberty, et cetera,” Erika said. “But I’m busy right now, Nick. Can’t it wait till I see you?”

“When?”

“Didn’t you get my message?” Erika demanded.

“Of course not,” Martin said, angrily. “I’ve suspected for some time that all my incoming calls have to be cleared by St. Cyr. Somebody might try to smuggle in a word of hope, or possibly a file.” His voice brightened. “Planning a jailbreak?”

“Oh, this is outrageous,” Erika said. “Some day St. Cyr’s going to go too far—”

“Not while he’s got DeeDee behind him,” Martin said gloomily. Summit Studios would sooner have made a film promoting atheism than offend their top box-office star, DeeDee Fleming. Even Tolliver Watt, who owned Summit lock, stock and barrel, spent wakeful nights because St. Cyr refused to let the lovely DeeDee sign a long-term contract.

“Nevertheless, Watt’s no fool,” Erika said. “I still think we could get him to give you a contract release if we could make him realize what a rotten investment you are. There isn’t much time, though.”

“Why not?”

“I told you—oh. Of course you don’t know. He’s leaving for Paris tomorrow morning.”

Martin moaned. “Then I’m doomed,” he said. “They’ll pick up my option automatically next week and I’ll never draw a free breath again. Erika, do something!”

“I’m going to,” Erika said. “That’s exactly what I want to see you about. Ah,” she added suddenly, “now I understand why St. Cyr stopped my message. He was afraid. Nick, do you know what we’ve got to do?”

“See Watt?” Nick hazarded unhappily. “But Erika—”

“See Watt alone,” Erika amplified.

“Not if St. Cyr can help it,” Nick reminded her.

“Exactly. Naturally St. Cyr doesn’t want us to talk to Watt privately. We might make him see reason. But this time, Nick, we’ve simply got to manage it somehow. One of us is going to talk to Watt while the other keeps St. Cyr at bay. Which do you choose?”

“Neither,” Martin said promptly.

“Oh, Nick! I can’t do the whole thing alone. Anybody’d think you were afraid of St. Cyr.”

“I am afraid of St. Cyr,” Martin said.

“Nonsense. What could he actually do to you?”

“He could terrorize me. He does it all the time. Erika, he says I’m indoctrinating beautifully. Doesn’t it make your blood run cold? Look at all the other writers he’s indoctrinated.”

“I know. I saw one of them on Main Street last week, delving into garbage cans. Do you want to end up that way? Then stand up for your rights!”

“Ah,” said the robot wisely, nodding. “Just as I thought. A crisis-point.”

“Shut up,” Martin said. “No, not you, Erika. I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” Erika said tartly. “For a moment I thought you’d acquired a backbone.”

“If I were somebody like Hemingway—” Martin began in a miserable voice.

“Did you say Hemingway?” the robot inquired. “Is this the Kinsey-Hemingway era? Then I must be right. You’re Nicholas Martin, the next subject. Martin, Martin? Let me see—oh yes, the Disraeli type, that’s it.” He rubbed his forehead with a grating sound. “Oh, my poor neuron thresholds! Now I remember.”

“Nick, can you hear me?” Erika’s voice inquired. “I’m coming over there right away. Brace yourself. We’re going to beard St. Cyr in his den and convince Watt you’ll never make a good screenwriter. Now—”

“But St. Cyr won’t ever admit that,” Martin cried. “He doesn’t know the meaning of the word failure. He says so. He’s going to make me into a screenwriter or kill me.”

“Remember what happened to Ed Cassidy?” Erika reminded him grimly. “St. Cyr didn’t make him into a screenwriter.”

“True. Poor old Ed,” Martin said, with a shiver.

“All right, then. I’m on my way. Anything else?”

“Yes!” Martin cried, drawing a deep breath. “Yes, there is! I love you madly!”

But the words never got past his glottis. Opening and closing his mouth noiselessly, the cowardly playwright finally clenched his teeth and tried again. A faint, hopeless squeak vibrated the telephone’s disk. Martin let his shoulders slump hopelessly. It was clear he could never propose to anybody, not even a harmless telephone.

“Did you say something?” Erika asked. “Well, goodbye then.”

“Wait a minute,” Martin said, his eyes suddenly falling once more upon the robot. Speechless on one subject only, he went on rapidly, “I forgot to tell you. Watt and the nest-fouling St. Cyr have just hired a mock-up phony robot to play in Angelina Noel!”

But the line was dead.

“I’m not a phony,” the robot said, hurt.

Martin fell back in his chair and stared at his guest with dull, hopeless eyes. “Neither was King Kong,” he remarked. “Don’t start feeding me some line St. Cyr’s told you to pull. I know he’s trying to break my nerve. He’ll probably do it, too. Look what he’s done to my play already. Why Fred Waring? I don’t mind Fred Waring in his proper place. There he’s fine. But not in Angelina Noel. Not as the Portuguese captain of a fishing boat manned by his entire band, accompanied by Dan Dailey singing ‘Napoli’ to DeeDee Fleming in a mermaid’s tail—”

Self-stunned by this recapitulation, Martin put his arms on the desk, his head in his hands, and to his horror found himself giggling. The telephone rang. Martin groped for the instrument without rising from his semi-recumbent position.

“Who?” he asked shakily. “Who? St. Cyr—”

A hoarse bellow came over the wire. Martin sat bolt upright, seizing the phone desperately with both hands.

“Listen!” he cried. “Will you let me finish what I’m going to say, just for once? Putting a robot in Angelina Noel is simply—”

“I do not hear what you say,” roared a heavy voice. “Your idea stinks. Whatever it is. Be at Theater One for yesterday’s rushes! At once!”

“But wait—”

St. Cyr belched and hung up. Martin’s strangling hands tightened briefly on the telephone. But it was no use. The real stranglehold was the one St. Cyr had around Martin’s throat, and it had been tightening now for nearly thirteen weeks. Or had it been thirteen years? Looking backward, Martin could scarcely believe that only a short time ago he had been a free man, a successful Broadway playwright, the author of the hit play Angelina Noel. Then had come St. Cyr. …

A snob at heart, the director loved getting his clutches on hit plays and name writers. Summit Studios, he had roared at Martin, would follow the original play exactly and would give Martin the final okay on the script, provided he signed a thirteen-week contract to help write the screen treatment. This had seemed too good to be true—and was.

Martin’s downfall lay partly in the fine print and partly in the fact that Erika Ashby had been in the hospital with a bad attack of influenza at the time. Buried in legal verbiage was a clause that bound Martin to five years of servitude with Summit should they pick up his option. Next week they would certainly do just that, unless justice prevailed.

“I think I need a drink,” Martin said unsteadily. “Or several.” He glanced toward the robot. “I wonder if you’d mind getting me that bottle of Scotch from the bar over there.”

“But I am here to conduct an experiment in optimum ecology,” said the robot.

Martin closed his eyes. “Pour me a drink,” he pleaded. “Please. Then put the glass in my hand, will you? It’s not much to ask. After all, we’re both human beings, aren’t we?”

“Well, no,” the robot said, placing a brimming glass in Martin’s groping fingers. Martin drank. Then he opened his eyes and blinked at the tall highball glass in his hand. The robot had filled it to the brim with Scotch. Martin turned a wondering gaze on his metallic companion.

“You must do a lot of drinking yourself,” he said thoughtfully. “I suppose tolerance can be built up. Go ahead. Help yourself. Take the rest of the bottle.”

The robot placed the tip of a finger above each eye and slid the fingers upward, as though raising his eyebrows inquiringly.

“Go on, have a jolt,” Martin urged. “Or don’t you want to break bread with me, under the circumstances?”

“How can I?” the robot asked. “I’m a robot.” His voice sounded somewhat wistful. “What happens?” he inquired. “Is it a lubricatory or a fueling mechanism?”

Martin glanced at his brimming glass.

“Fueling,” he said tersely. “High octane. You really believe in staying in character, don’t you? Why not—”

“Oh, the principle of irritation,” the robot interrupted. “I see. Just like fermented mammoth’s milk.”

Martin choked. “Have you ever drunk fermented mammoth’s milk?” he inquired.

“How could I?” the robot asked. “But I’ve seen it done.” He drew a straight line vertically upward between his invisible eyebrows, managing to look wistful. “Of course my world is perfectly functional and functionally perfect, but I can’t help finding temporalizing a fascina—” He broke off. “I’m wasting space-time. Ah. Now. Mr. Martin, would you be willing to—”

“Oh, have a drink,” Martin said. “I feel hospitable. Go ahead, indulge me, will you? My pleasures are few. And I’ve got to go and be terrorized in a minute, anyhow. If you can’t get that mask off I’ll send for a straw. You can step out of character long enough for one jolt, can’t you?”

“I’d like to try it,” the robot said pensively. “Ever since I noticed the effect fermented mammoth’s milk had on the boys, it’s been on my mind, rather. Quite easy for a human, of course. Technically it’s simple enough, I see now. The irritation just increases the frequency of the brain’s kappa waves, as with boosted voltage, but since electrical voltage never existed in pre-robot times—”

“It did,” Martin said, taking another drink. “I mean, it does. What do you call that, a mammoth?” He indicated the desk lamp.

The robot’s jaw dropped.

“That?” he asked in blank amazement. “Why—why then all those telephone poles and dynamos and lighting-equipment I noticed in this era are powered by electricity!”

“What did you think they were powered by?” Martin asked coldly.

“Slaves,” the robot said, examining the lamp. He switched it on, blinked, and then unscrewed the bulb. “Voltage, you say?”

“Don’t be a fool,” Martin said. “You’re overplaying your part. I’ve got to get going in a minute. Do you want a jolt or don’t you?”

“Well,” the robot said, “I don’t want to seem unsociable. This ought to work.” So saying, he stuck his finger in the lamp-socket. There was a brief, crackling flash. The robot withdrew his finger.

“F(t)—” he said, and swayed slightly. Then his fingers came up and sketched a smile that seemed, somehow, to express delighted surprise.

“Fff(t)!” he said, and went on rather thickly, “F(t) integral between plus and minus infinity … a-sub-n to e. …”

Martin’s eyes opened wide with shocked horror. Whether a doctor or a psychiatrist should be called in was debatable, but it was perfectly evident that this was a case for the medical profession, and the sooner the better. Perhaps the police, too. The bit-player in the robot suit was clearly as mad as a hatter. Martin poised indecisively, waiting for his lunatic guest either to drop dead or spring at his throat.

The robot appeared to be smacking his lips, with faint clicking sounds.

“Why, that’s wonderful,” he said. “AC, too.”

“Y‑you’re not dead?” Martin inquired shakily.

“I’m not even alive,” the robot murmured. “The way you’d understand it, that is. Ah—thanks for the jolt.”

Martin stared at the robot with the wildest dawning of surmise.

“Why—” he gasped. “Why—you’re a robot!”

“Certainly I’m a robot,” his guest said. “What slow minds you pre-robots had. Mine’s working like lightning now.” He stole a drunkard’s glance at the desk-lamp. “F(t)—I mean, if you counted the kappa waves of my radio-atomic brain now, you’d be amazed how the frequency’s increased.” He paused thoughtfully. “F(t),” he added.

Moving quite slowly, like a man under water, Martin lifted his glass and drank whiskey. Then, cautiously, he looked up at the robot again.

“F(t)—” he said, paused, shuddered, and drank again. That did it. “I’m drunk,” he said with an air of shaken relief. “That must be it. I was almost beginning to believe—”

“Oh, nobody believes I’m a robot at first,” the robot said. “You’ll notice I showed up in a movie lot, where I wouldn’t arouse suspicion. I’ll appear to Ivan Vasilovich in an alchemist’s lab, and he’ll jump to the conclusive I’m an automaton. Which, of course, I am. Then there’s a Uighur on my list—I’ll appear to him in a shaman’s hut and he’ll assume I’m a devil. A matter of ecologicologic.”

“Then you’re a devil?” Martin inquired, seizing on the only plausible solution.

“No, no, no. I’m a robot. Don’t you understand anything?”

“I don’t even know who I am, now,” Martin said. “For all I know, I’m a faun and you’re a human child. I don’t think this Scotch is doing me as much good as I’d—”

“Your name is Nicholas Martin,” the robot said patiently. “And mine is ENIAC.”

“Eniac?”

“ENIAC,” the robot corrected, capitalizing. “ENIAC Gamma the Ninety-Third.”

So saying, he unslung a sack from his metallic shoulder and began to rummage out length upon length of what looked like red silk ribbon with a curious metallic lustre. After approximately a quarter-mile of it had appeared, a crystal football helmet emerged attached to its end. A gleaming red-green stone was set on each side of the helmet.

“Just over the temporal lobes, you see,” the robot explained, indicating the jewels. “Now you just set it on your head, like this—”

“Oh no I don’t,” Martin said, withdrawing his head with the utmost rapidity. “Neither do you, my friend. What’s the idea? I don’t like the looks of that gimmick. I particularly don’t like those two red garnets on the sides. They look like eyes.”

“Those are artificial eclogite,” the robot assured him. “They simply have a high dielectric constant. It’s merely a matter of altering the normal thresholds of the neuron memory-circuits. All thinking is based on memory, you know. The strength of your associations—the emotional indices of your memories—channel your actions and decisions, and the ecologizer simply changes the voltage of your brain so the thresholds are altered.”

“Is that all it does?” Martin asked suspiciously.

“Well, now,” the robot said with a slight air of evasion. “I didn’t intend to mention it, but since you ask—it also imposes the master-matrix of your character type. But since that’s the prototype of your character in the first place, it will simply enable you to make the most of your potential ability, hereditary and acquired. It will make you react to your environment in the way that best assures your survival.”

“Not me, it won’t,” Martin said firmly. “Because you aren’t going to put that thing on my head.”

The robot sketched a puzzled frown. “Oh,” he said after a pause. “I haven’t explained yet, have I? It’s very simple. Would you be willing to take part in a valuable sociocultural experiment for the benefit of all mankind?”

“No,” Martin said.

“But you don’t know what it is yet,” the robot said plaintively. “You’ll be the only one to refuse, after I’ve explained everything thoroughly. By the way, can you understand me all right?”

Martin laughed hollowly. “Natch,” he said.

“Good,” the robot said, relieved. “That may be one trouble with my memory. I had to record so many languages before I could temporalize. Sanskrit’s very simple, but medieval Russian’s confusing, and as for Uighur—however! The purpose of this experiment is to promote the most successful pro-survival relationship between man and his environment. Instant adaptation is what we’re aiming at, and we hope to get it by minimizing the differential between individual and environment. In other words, the right reaction at the right time. Understand?”

“Of course not,” Martin said. “What nonsense you talk.”

“There are,” the robot said rather wearily, “only a limited number of character matrices possible, depending first on the arrangement of the genes within the chromosomes, and later upon environmental additions. Since environments tend to repeat—like societies, you know—an organizational pattern isn’t hard to lay out, along the Kaldekooz time-scale. You follow me so far?”

“By the Kaldekooz time-scale, yes,” Martin said.

“I was always lucid,” the robot remarked a little vainly, nourishing a swirl of red ribbon.

“Keep that thing away from me,” Martin complained. “Drunk I may be, but I have no intention of sticking my neck out that far.”

“Of course you’ll do it,” the robot said firmly. “Nobody’s ever refused yet. And don’t bicker with me or you’ll get me confused and I’ll have to take another jolt of voltage. Then there’s no telling how confused I’ll be. My memory gives me enough trouble when I temporalize. Time-travel always raises the synaptic delay threshold, but the trouble is it’s so variable. That’s why I got you mixed up with Ivan at first. But I don’t visit him till after I’ve seen you—I’m running the test chronologically, and nineteen-fifty-two comes before fifteen-seventy, of course.”

“It doesn’t,” Martin said, tilting the glass to his lips. “Not even in Hollywood does nineteen-fifty-two come before fifteen-seventy.”

“I’m using the Kaldekooz time-scale,” the robot explained. “But really only for convenience. Now do you want the ideal ecological differential or don’t you? Because—” Here he flourished the red ribbon again, peered into the helmet, looked narrowly at Martin, and shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” the robot said. “I’m afraid this won’t work. Your head’s too small. Not enough brain-room, I suppose. This helmet’s for an eight and a half head, and yours is much too—”

“My head is eight and a half,” Martin protested with dignity.

“Can’t be,” the robot said cunningly. “If it were, the helmet would fit, and it doesn’t. Too big.”

“It does fit,” Martin said.

“That’s the trouble with arguing with pre-robot species,” ENIAC said, as to himself. “Low, brutish, unreasoning. No wonder, when their heads are so small. Now Mr. Martin—” He spoke as though to a small, stupid, stubborn child. “Try to understand. This helmet’s size eight and a half. Your head is unfortunately so very small that the helmet wouldn’t fit—”

“Blast it!” cried the infuriated Martin, caution quite lost between Scotch and annoyance. “It does fit! Look here!” Recklessly he snatched the helmet and clapped it firmly on his head. “It fits perfectly!”

“I erred,” the robot acknowledged, with such a gleam in his eye that Martin, suddenly conscious of his rashness, jerked the helmet from his head and dropped it on the desk. ENIAC quietly picked it up and put it back into his sack, stuffing the red ribbon in after it with rapid motions. Martin watched, baffled, until ENIAC had finished, gathered together the mouth of the sack, swung it on his shoulder again, and turned toward the door.

“Goodbye,” the robot said. “And thank you.”

“For what?” Martin demanded.

“For your cooperation,” the robot said.

“I won’t cooperate,” Martin told him flatly. “It’s no use. Whatever fool treatment it is you’re selling, I’m not going to—”

“Oh, you’ve already had the ecology treatment,” ENIAC replied blandly. “I’ll be back tonight to renew the charge. It lasts only twelve hours.”

“What!”

ENIAC moved his forefingers outward from the corners of his mouth, sketching a polite smile. Then he stepped through the door and closed it behind him.

Martin made a faint squealing sound, like a stuck but gagged pig.

Something was happening inside his head.

II

Nicholas Martin felt like a man suddenly thrust under an ice-cold shower. No, not cold—steaming hot. Perfumed, too. The wind that blew in from the open window bore with it a frightful stench of gasoline, sagebrush, paint, and—from the distant commissary—ham sandwiches.

“Drunk,” he thought frantically. “I’m drunk—or crazy!” He sprang up and spun around wildly; then catching sight of a crack in the hardwood floor he tried to walk along it. “Because if I can walk a straight line,” he thought, “I’m not drunk. I’m only crazy. …” It was not a very comforting thought.

He could walk it, all right. He could walk a far straighter line than the crack, which he saw now was microscopically jagged. He had, in fact, never felt such a sense of location and equilibrium in his life. His experiment carried him across the room to a wall-mirror, and as he straightened to look into it, suddenly all confusion settled and ceased. The violent sensory perceptions leveled off and returned to normal.

Everything was quiet. Everything was all right.

Martin met his own eyes in the mirror.

Everything was not all right.

He was stone cold sober. The Scotch he had drunk might as well have been spring-water. He leaned closer to the mirror, trying to stare through his own eyes into the depths of his brain. For something extremely odd was happening in there. All over his brain, tiny shutters were beginning to move, some sliding up till only a narrow crack remained, through which the beady little eyes of neurons could be seen peeping, some sliding down with faint crashes, revealing the agile, spidery forms of still other neurons scuttling for cover.

Altered thresholds, changing the yes-and-no reaction time of the memory-circuits, with their key emotional indices and associations … huh?

The robot!

Martin’s head swung toward the closed office door. But he made no further move. The look of blank panic on his face very slowly, quite unconsciously, began to change. The robot … could wait.

Automatically Martin raised his hand, as though to adjust an invisible monocle. Behind him, the telephone began to ring. Martin glanced at it.

His lips curved into an insolent smile.

Flicking dust from his lapel with a suave gesture, Martin picked up the telephone. He said nothing. There was a long silence. Then a hoarse voice shouted, “Hello, hello, hello! Are you there? You, Martin!”

Martin said absolutely nothing at all.

“You keep me waiting,” the voice bellowed. “Me, St. Cyr! Now jump! The rushes are … Martin, do you hear me?”

Martin gently laid down the receiver on the desk. He turned again toward the mirror, regarded himself critically, frowned.

“Dreary,” he murmured. “Distinctly dreary. I wonder why I ever bought this necktie?”

The softly bellowing telephone distracted him. He studied the instrument briefly, then clapped his hands sharply together an inch from the mouthpiece. There was a sharp, anguished cry from the other end of the line.

“Very good,” Martin murmured, turning away. “That robot has done me a considerable favor. I should have realized the possibilities sooner. After all, a super-machine, such as ENIAC, would be far cleverer than a man, who is merely an ordinary machine. Yes,” he added, stepping into the hall and coming face to face with Toni LaMotta, who was currently working for Summit on loan. “ ‘Man is a machine, and woman—’ ” Here he gave Miss LaMotta a look of such arrogant significance that she was quite startled.

“ ‘And woman—a toy,’ ” Martin amplified, as he turned toward Theater One, where St. Cyr and destiny awaited him.

Summit Studios, outdoing even M.G.M., always shot ten times as much footage as necessary on every scene. At the beginning of each shooting day, this confusing mass of celluloid was shown in St. Cyr’s private projection theater, a small but luxurious domed room furnished with lie-back chairs and every other convenience, though no screen was visible until you looked up. Then you saw it on the ceiling.

When Martin entered, it was instantly evident that ecology took a sudden shift toward the worse. Operating on the theory that the old Nicholas Martin had come into it, the theater, which had breathed an expensive air of luxurious confidence, chilled toward him. The nap of the Persian rug shrank from his contaminating feet. The chair he stumbled against in the half-light seemed to shrug contemptuously. And the three people in the theater gave him such a look as might be turned upon one of the larger apes who had, by sheer accident, got an invitation to Buckingham Palace.

DeeDee Fleming (her real name was impossible to remember, besides having not a vowel in it) lay placidly in her chair, her feet comfortably up, her lovely hands folded, her large, liquid gaze fixed upon the screen where DeeDee Fleming, in the silvery meshes of a technicolor mermaid, swam phlegmatically through seas of pearl-colored mist.

Martin groped in the gloom for a chair. The strangest things were going on inside his brain, where tiny stiles still moved and readjusted until he no longer felt in the least like Nicholas Martin. Who did he feel like, then? What had happened?

He recalled the neurons whose beady little eyes he had fancied he saw staring brightly into, as well as out of, his own. Or had he? The memory was vivid, yet it couldn’t be, of course. The answer was perfectly simple and terribly logical. ENIAC Gamma the Ninety-Third had told him, somewhat ambiguously, just what his ecological experiment involved. Martin had merely been given the optimum reactive pattern of his successful prototype, a man who had most thoroughly controlled his own environment. And ENIAC had told him the man’s name, along with several confusing references to other prototypes like an Ivan (who?) and an unnamed Uighur.

The name for Martin’s prototype was, of course, Disraeli, Earl of Beaconsfield. Martin had a vivid recollection of George Arliss playing the role. Clever, insolent, eccentric in dress and manner, exuberant, suave, self-controlled, with a strongly perceptive imagination. …

“No, no, no!” DeeDee said with a sort of calm impatience. “Be careful, Nick. Some other chair, please. I have my feet on this one.”

“T‑t‑t‑t‑t,” said Raoul St. Cyr, protruding his thick lips and snapping the fingers of an enormous hand as he pointed to a lowly chair against the wall. “Behind me, Martin. Sit down, sit down. Out of our way. Now! Pay attention. Study what I have done to make something great out of your foolish little play. Especially note how I have so cleverly ended the solo by building to five cumulative pratt-falls. Timing is all,” he finished. “Now—silence!”

For a man born in the obscure little Balkan country of Mixo-Lydia, Raoul St. Cyr had done very well for himself in Hollywood. In 1939 St. Cyr, growing alarmed at the imminence of war, departed for America, taking with him the print of an unpronounceable Mixo-Lydian film he had made, which might be translated roughly as The Pores in the Face of the Peasant.

With this he established his artistic reputation as a great director, though if the truth were known, it was really poverty that caused The Pores to be so artistically lighted, and simple drunkenness which had made most of the cast act out one of the strangest performances in film history. But critics compared The Pores to a ballet and praised inordinately the beauty of its leading lady, now known to the world as DeeDee Fleming.

DeeDee was so incredibly beautiful that the law of compensation would force one to expect incredible stupidity as well. One was not disappointed. DeeDee’s neurons didn’t know anything. She had heard of emotions, and under St. Cyr’s bullying could imitate a few of them, but other directors had gone mad trying to get through the semantic block that kept DeeDee’s mind a calm, unruffled pool possibly three inches deep. St. Cyr merely bellowed. This simple, primordial approach seemed to be the only one that made sense to Summit’s greatest investment and top star.

With this whip-hand over the beautiful and brainless DeeDee, St. Cyr quickly rose to the top in Hollywood. He had undoubted talent. He could make one picture very well indeed. He had made it twenty times already, each time starring DeeDee, and each time perfecting his own feudalistic production unit. Whenever anyone disagreed with St. Cyr, he had only to threaten to go over to M.G.M. and take the obedient DeeDee with him, for he had never allowed her to sign a long-term contract and she worked only on a picture-to-picture basis. Even Tolliver Watt knuckled under when St. Cyr voiced the threat of removing DeeDee.

“Sit down, Martin,” Tolliver Watt said. He was a tall, lean, hatchet-faced man who looked like a horse being starved because he was too proud to eat hay. With calm, detached omnipotence he inclined his grey-shot head a millimeter, while a faintly pained expression passed fleetingly across his face.

“Highball, please,” he said.

A white-clad waiter appeared noiselessly from nowhere and glided forward with a tray. It was at this point that Martin felt the last stiles readjust in his brain, and entirely on impulse he reached out and took the frosted highball glass from the tray. Without observing this the waiter glided on and presented Watt with a gleaming salver full of nothing. Watt and the waiter regarded the tray.

Then their eyes met. There was a brief silence.

“Here,” Martin said, replacing the glass. “Much too weak. Get me another, please. I’m reorienting toward a new phase, which means a different optimum,” he explained to the puzzled Watt as he readjusted a chair beside the great man and dropped into it. Odd that he had never before felt at ease during rushes. Right now he felt fine. Perfectly at ease. Relaxed.

“Scotch and soda for Mr. Martin,” Watt said calmly. “And another for me.”

“So, so, so, now we begin,” St. Cyr cried impatiently. He spoke into a hand microphone. Instantly the screen on the ceiling flickered noisily and began to unfold a series of rather ragged scenes in which a chorus of mermaids danced on their tails down the street of a little Florida fishing village.

To understand the full loathsomeness of the fate facing Nicholas Martin, it is necessary to view a St. Cyr production. It seemed to Martin that he was watching the most noisome movie ever put upon film. He was conscious that St. Cyr and Watt were stealing rather mystified glances at him. In the dark he put up two fingers and sketched a robot-like grin. Then, feeling sublimely sure of himself, he lit a cigarette and chuckled aloud.

“You laugh?” St. Cyr demanded with instant displeasure. “You do not appreciate great art? What do you know about it, eh? Are you a genius?”

“This,” Martin said urbanely, “is the most noisome movie ever put on film.”

In the sudden, deathly quiet which followed, Martin flicked ashes elegantly and added, “With my help, you may yet avoid becoming the laughing stock of the whole continent. Every foot of this picture must be junked. Tomorrow bright and early we will start all over, and—”

Watt said quietly, “We’re quite competent to make a film out of Angelina Noel, Martin.”

“It is artistic!” St. Cyr shouted. “And it will make money, too!”

“Bah, money!” Martin said cunningly. He flicked more ash with a lavish gesture. “Who cares about money? Let Summit worry.”

Watt leaned forward to peer searchingly at Martin in the dimness.

“Raoul,” he said, glancing at St. Cyr, “I understood you were getting your—ah—your new writers whipped into shape. This doesn’t sound to me as if—”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes,” St. Cyr cried excitedly. “Whipped into shape, exactly! A brief delirium, eh? Martin, you feel well? You feel yourself?”

Martin laughed with quiet confidence. “Never fear,” he said. “The money you spend on me is well worth what I’ll bring you in prestige. I quite understand. Our confidential talks were not to be secret from Watt, of course.”

“What confidential talks?” bellowed St. Cyr thickly, growing red.

“We need keep nothing from Watt, need we?” Martin went on imperturably. “You hired me for prestige, and prestige you’ll get, if you can only keep your big mouth shut long enough. I’ll make the name of St. Cyr glorious for you. Naturally you may lose something at the box-office, but it’s well worth—”

“Pjrzqxgl!” roared St. Cyr in his native tongue, and he lumbered up from the chair, brandishing the microphone in an enormous, hairy hand.

Deftly Martin reached out and twitched it from his grasp.

“Stop the film,” he ordered crisply.

It was very strange. A distant part of his mind knew that normally he would never have dared behave this way, but he felt convinced that never before in his life had he acted with complete normality. He glowed with a giddy warmth of confidence that everything he did would be right, at least while the twelve-hour treatment lasted. …

The screen flickered hesitantly, then went blank.

“Turn the lights on,” Martin ordered the unseen presence beyond the mike. Softly and suddenly the room glowed with illumination. And upon the visages of Watt and St. Cyr he saw a mutual dawning uneasiness begin to break.

He had just given them food for thought. But he had given them more than that. He tried to imagine what moved in the minds of the two men, below the suspicions he had just implanted. St. Cyr’s was fairly obvious. The Mixo-Lydian licked his lips—no mean task—and studied Martin with uneasy little bloodshot eyes. Clearly Martin had acquired confidence from somewhere. What did it mean? What secret sin of St. Cyr’s had been discovered to him, what flaw in his contract, that he dared behave so defiantly?

Tolliver Watt was a horse of another color; apparently the man had no guilty secrets; but he too looked uneasy. Martin studied the proud face and probed for inner weaknesses. Watt would be a harder nut to crack. But Martin could do it.

“That last underwater sequence,” he now said, pursuing his theme. “Pure trash, you know. It’ll have to come out. The whole scene must be shot from under water.”

“Shut up!” St. Cyr shouted violently.

“But it must, you know,” Martin went on. “Or it won’t jibe with the new stuff I’ve written in. In fact, I’m not at all certain that the whole picture shouldn’t be shot under water. You know, we could use the documentary technique—”

“Raoul,” Watt said suddenly, “what’s this man trying to do?”

“He is trying to break his contract, of course,” St. Cyr said, turning ruddy olive. “It is the bad phase all my writers go through before I get them whipped into shape. In Mixo-Lydia—”

“Are you sure he’ll whip into shape?” Watt asked.

“To me this is now a personal matter,” St. Cyr said, glaring at Martin. “I have spent nearly thirteen weeks on this man and I do not intend to waste my valuable time on another. I tell you he is simply trying to break his contract—tricks, tricks, tricks.”

“Are you?” Watt asked Martin coldly.

“Not now,” Martin said. “I’ve changed my mind. My agent insists I’d be better off away from Summit. In fact, she has the curious feeling that I and Summit would suffer by a mésalliance. But for the first time I’m not sure I agree. I begin to see possibilities, even in the tripe St. Cyr has been stuffing down the public’s throat for years. Of course I can’t work miracles all at once. Audiences have come to expect garbage from Summit, and they’ve even been conditioned to like it. But we’ll begin in a small way to re-educate them with this picture. I suggest we try to symbolize the Existentialist hopelessness of it all by ending the film with a full four hundred feet of seascapes—nothing but vast, heaving stretches of ocean,” he ended, on a note of complacent satisfaction.

A vast, heaving stretch of Raoul St. Cyr rose from his chair and advanced upon Martin.

“Outside, outside!” he shouted. “Back to your cell, you double-crossing vermin! I, Raoul St. Cyr, command it. Outside, before I rip you limb from limb—”

Martin spoke quickly. His voice was calm, but he knew he would have to work fast.

“You see, Watt?” he said clearly, meeting Watt’s rather startled gaze. “Doesn’t dare let you exchange three words with me, for fear I’ll let something slip. No wonder he’s trying to put me out of here—he’s skating on thin ice these days.”

Goaded, St. Cyr rolled forward in a ponderous lunge, but Watt interposed. It was true, of course, that the writer was probably trying to break his contract. But there were wheels within wheels here. Martin was too confident, too debonaire. Something was going on which Watt did not understand.

“All right, Raoul,” he said decisively. “Relax for a minute. I said relax! We don’t want Nick here suing you for assault and battery, do we? Your artistic temperament carries you away sometimes. Relax and let’s hear what Nick has to say.”

“Watch out for him, Tolliver!” St. Cyr cried warningly. “They’re cunning, these creatures. Cunning as rats. You never know—”

Martin raised the microphone with a lordly gesture. Ignoring the director, he said commandingly into the mike, “Put me through to the commissary. The bar, please. Yes. I want to order a drink. Something very special. A—ah—a Helena Glinska—”

“Hello,” Erika Ashby’s voice said from the door. “Nick, are you there? May I come in?”

The sound of her voice sent delicious chills rushing up and down Martin’s spine. He swung round, mike in hand, to welcome her. But St. Cyr, pleased at this diversion, roared before he could speak.

“No, no, no, no! Go! Go at once. Whoever you are—out!”

Erika, looking very brisk, attractive and firm, marched into the room and cast at Martin a look of resigned patience.

Very clearly she expected to fight both her own battles and his.

“I’m on business here,” she told St. Cyr coldly. “You can’t part author and agent like this. Nick and I want to have a word with Mr. Watt.”

“Ah, my pretty creature, sit down,” Martin said in a loud, clear voice, scrambling out of his chair. “Welcome! I’m just ordering myself a drink. Will you have something?”

Erika looked at him with startled suspicion. “No, and neither will you,” she said. “How many have you had already? Nick, if you’re drunk at a time like this—”

“And no shilly-shallying,” Martin said blandly into the mike. “I want it at once, do you hear? A Helena Glinska, yes. Perhaps you don’t know it? Then listen carefully. Take the largest Napoleon you’ve got. If you haven’t a big one, a small punch bowl will do. Fill it half full with ice-cold ale. Got that? Add three jiggers of creme de menthe—”

“Nick, are you mad?” Erika demanded, revolted.

“—and six jiggers of honey,” Martin went on placidly. “Stir, don’t shake. Never shake a Helena Glinska. Keep it well chilled, and—”

“Miss Ashby, we are very busy,” St. Cyr broke in importantly, making shooing motions toward the door. “Not now. Sorry. You interrupt. Go at once.”

“—better add six more jiggers of honey,” Martin was heard to add contemplatively into the mike. “And then send it over immediately. Drop everything else, and get it here within sixty seconds. There’s a bonus for you if you do. Okay? Good. See to it.”

He tossed the microphone casually at St. Cyr.

Meanwhile, Erika had closed in on Tolliver Watt.

“I’ve just come from talking to Gloria Eden,” she said, “and she’s willing to do a one-picture deal with Summit if I okay it. But I’m not going to okay it unless you release Nick Martin from his contract, and that’s flat.”

Watt showed pleased surprise.

“Well, we might get together on that,” he said instantly, for he was a fan of Miss Eden’s and for a long time had yearned to star her in a remake of Vanity Fair. “Why didn’t you bring her along? We could have—”

“Nonsense!” St. Cyr shouted. “Do not discuss this matter yet, Tolliver.”

“She’s down at Laguna,” Erika explained. “Be quiet, St. Cyr! I won’t—”

A knock at the door interrupted her. Martin hurried to open it and as he had expected encountered a waiter with a tray.

“Quick work,” he said urbanely, accepting the huge, coldly sweating Napoleon in a bank of ice. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

St. Cyr’s booming shouts from behind him drowned out whatever remark the waiter may have made as he received a bill from Martin and withdrew, looking nauseated.

“No, no, no, no,” St. Cyr was roaring. “Tolliver, we can get Gloria and keep this writer too, not that he is any good, but I have spent already thirteen weeks training him in the St. Cyr approach. Leave it to me. In Mixo-Lydia we handle—”

Erika’s attractive mouth was opening and shutting, her voice unheard in the uproar. St. Cyr could keep it up indefinitely, as was well known in Hollywood. Martin sighed, lifted the brimming Napoleon and sniffed delicately as he stepped backward toward his chair. When his heel touched it, he tripped with the utmost grace and savoir-faire, and very deftly emptied the Helena Glinsak, ale, honey, creme de menthe, ice and all, over St. Cyr’s capacious front.

St. Cyr’s bellow broke the microphone.

Martin had composed his invention carefully. The nauseous brew combined the maximum elements of wetness, coldness, stickiness and pungency.

The drenched St. Cyr, shuddering violently as the icy beverage deluged his legs, snatched out his handkerchief and mopped in vain. The handkerchief merely stuck to his trousers, glued there by twelve jiggers of honey. He reeked of peppermint.

“I suggest we adjourn to the commissary,” Martin said fastidiously. “In some private booth we can go on with this discussion away from the—the rather overpowering smell of peppermint.”

“In Mixo-Lydia,” St. Cyr gasped, sloshing in his shoes as he turned toward Martin, “in Mixo-Lydia we throw to the dogs—we boil in oil—we—”

“And next time,” Martin said, “please don’t joggle my elbow when I’m holding a Helena Glinska. It’s most annoying.”

St. Cyr drew a mighty breath, rose to his full height—and then subsided. St. Cyr at the moment looked like a Keystone Kop after the chase sequence, and knew it. Even if he killed Martin now, the element of classic tragedy would be lacking. He would appear in the untenable position of Hamlet murdering his uncle with custard pies.

“Do nothing until I return!” he commanded, and with a final glare at Martin plunged moistly out of the theater.

The door crashed shut behind him. There was silence for a moment except for the soft music from the overhead screen which DeeDee had caused to be turned on again, so that she might watch her own lovely form flicker in dimmed images through pastel waves, while she sang a duet with Dan Dailey about sailors, mermaids and her home in far Atlantis.

“And now,” said Martin, turning with quiet authority to Watt, who was regarding him with a baffled expression, “I want a word with you.”

“I can’t discuss your contract till Raoul gets back,” Watt said quickly.

“Nonsense,” Martin said in a firm voice. “Why should St. Cyr dictate your decisions? Without you, he couldn’t turn out a box-office success if he had to. No, be quiet, Erika. I’m handling this, my pretty creature.”

Watt rose to his feet. “Sorry, I can’t discuss it,” he said. “St. Cyr pictures make money, and you’re an inexperien—”

“That’s why I see the true situation so clearly,” Martin said. “The trouble with you is you draw a line between artistic genius and financial genius. To you, it’s merely routine when you work with the plastic medium of human minds, shaping them into an Ideal Audience. You are an ecological genius, Tolliver Watt! The true artist controls his environment, and gradually you, with a master’s consummate skill, shape that great mass of living, breathing humanity into a perfect audience. …”

“Sorry,” Watt said, but not, brusquely. “I really have no time—ah—”

“Your genius has gone long enough unrecognized,” Martin said hastily, letting admiration ring in his golden voice. “You assume that St. Cyr is your equal. You give him your own credit titles. Yet in your own mind you must have known that half the credit for his pictures is yours. Was Phidias noncommercial? Was Michelangelo? Commercialism is simply a label for functionalism, and all great artists produce functional art. The trivial details of Rubens’ masterpieces were filled in by assistants, were they not? But Rubens got the credit, not his hirelings. The proof of the pudding’s obvious. Why?” Cunningly gauging his listener, Martin here broke off.

“Why?” Watt asked.

“Sit down,” Martin urged. “I’ll tell you why. St. Cyr’s pictures make money, but you’re responsible for their molding into the ideal form, impressing your character-matrix upon everything and everyone at Summit Studios. …”

Slowly Watt sank into his chair. About his ears the hypnotic bursts of Disraelian rhodomontade thundered compellingly. For Martin had the man hooked. With unerring aim he had at the first try discovered Watt’s weakness—the uncomfortable feeling in a professionally arty town that moneymaking is a basically contemptible business. Disraeli had handled tougher problems in his day. He had swayed Parliaments.

Watt swayed, tottered—and fell. It took about ten minutes, all in all. By the end of that time, dizzy with eloquent praise of his economic ability, Watt had realized that while St. Cyr might be an artistic genius, he had no business interfering in the plans of an economic genius. Nobody told Watt what to do when economics were concerned.

“You have the broad vision that can balance all possibilities and show the right path with perfect clarity,” Martin said glibly. “Very well. You wish Eden. You feel—do you not?—that I am unsuitable material. Only geniuses can change their plans with instantaneous speed. … When will my contract release be ready?”

“What?” said Watt, in a swimming, glorious daze. “Oh. Of course. Hm‑m. Your contract release. Well, now—”

“St. Cyr would stubbornly cling to past errors until Summit goes broke,” Martin pointed out. “Only a genius like Tolliver Watt strikes when the iron is hot, when he sees a chance to exchange failure for success, a Martin for an Eden.”

“Hm‑m,” Watt said. “Yes. Very well, then.” His long face grew shrewd. “Very, well, you get your release—after I’ve signed Eden.”

“There you put your finger on the heart of the matter,” Martin approved, after a very brief moment of somewhat dashed thought. “Miss Eden is still undecided. If you left the transaction to somebody like St. Cyr, say, it would be botched. Erika, you have your car here? How quickly could you drive Tolliver Watt to Laguna? He’s the only person with the skill to handle this situation.”

“What situa—oh, yes. Of course, Nick. We could start right away.”

“But—” Watt said.

The Disraeli-matrix swept on into oratorical periods that made the walls ring. The golden tongue played arpeggios with logic.

“I see,” the dazed Watt murmured, allowing himself to be shepherded toward the door. “Yes, yes, of course. Then—suppose you drop over to my place tonight, Martin. After I get the Eden signature, I’ll have your release prepared. Hm‑m. Functional genius. …” His voice fell to a low, crooning mutter, and he moved quietly out of the door.

Martin laid a hand on Erika’s arm as she followed him.

“Wait a second,” he said. “Keep him away from the studio until we get the release. St. Cyr can still outshout me any time. But he’s hooked. We—”

“Nick,” Erika said, looking searchingly into his face. “What’s happened?”

“Tell you tonight,” Martin said hastily, hearing a distant bellow that might be the voice of St. Cyr approaching. “When I have time I’m going to sweep you off your feet. Did you know that I’ve worshipped you from afar all my life? But right now, get Watt out of the way. Hurry!”

Erika cast a glance of amazed bewilderment at him as he thrust her out of the door. Martin thought there was a certain element of pleasure in the surprise.

“Where is Tolliver?” The loud, annoyed roar of St. Cyr made Martin wince. The director was displeased, it appeared, because only in Costumes could a pair of trousers be found large enough to fit him. He took it as a personal affront. “What have you done with Tolliver?” he bellowed.

“Louder, please,” Martin said insolently. “I can’t hear you.”

“DeeDee,” St. Cyr shouted, whirling toward the lovely star, who hadn’t stirred from her rapturous admiration of DeeDee in technicolor overhead. “Where is Tolliver?”

Martin started. He had quite forgotten DeeDee.

“You don’t know, do you, DeeDee?” he prompted quickly.

“Shut up,” St. Cyr snapped. “Answer me, you—” He added a brisk polysyllable in Mixo-Lydian, with the desired effect. DeeDee wrinkled her flawless brow.

“Tolliver went away, I think. I’ve got it mixed up with the picture. He went home to meet Nick Martin, didn’t he?”

“See?” Martin interrupted, relieved. “No use expecting DeeDee to—”

“But Martin is here!” St. Cyr shouted. “Think, think!”

“Was the contract release in the rushes?” DeeDee asked vaguely.

“A contract release?” St. Cyr roared. “What is this? Never will I permit it, never, never, never! DeeDee, answer me—where has Watt gone?”

“He went somewhere with that agent,” DeeDee said. “Or was that in the rushes too?”

“But where, where, where?”

“They went to Atlantis,” DeeDee announced with an air of faint triumph.

“No!” shouted St. Cyr. “That was the picture! The mermaid came from Atlantis, not Watt!”

“Tolliver didn’t say he was coming from Atlantis,” DeeDee murmured, unruffled. “He said he was going to Atlantis. Then he was going to meet Nick Martin at his house tonight and give him his contract release.”

“When?” St. Cyr demanded furiously. “Think, DeeDee? What time did—”

“DeeDee,” Martin said, stepping forward with suave confidence, “you can’t remember a thing, can you?” But DeeDee was too subnormal to react even to a Disraeli-matrix. She merely smiled placidly at him.

“Out of my way, you writer!” roared St. Cyr, advancing upon Martin. “You will get no contract release! You do not waste St. Cyr’s time and get away with it! This I will not endure. I fix you as I fixed Ed Cassidy!”

Martin drew himself up and froze St. Cyr with an insolent smile. His hand toyed with an imaginary monocle. Golden periods were hanging at the end of his tongue. There only remained to hypnotize St. Cyr as he had hypnotized Watt. He drew a deep breath to unlease the floods of his eloquence—

And St. Cyr, also too subhuman to be impressed by urbanity, hit Martin a clout on the jaw.

It could never have happened in the British Parliament.

III

When the robot walked into Martin’s office that evening, he, or it, went directly to the desk, unscrewed the bulb from the lamp, pressed the switch, and stuck his finger into the socket. There was a crackling flash. ENIAC withdrew his finger and shook his metallic head violently.

“I needed that,” he sighed. “I’ve been on the go all day, by the Kaldekooz time-scale. Paleolithic, Neolithic, Technological—I don’t even know what time it is. Well, how’s your ecological adjustment getting on?”

Martin rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“Badly,” he said. “Tell me, did Disraeli, as Prime Minister, ever have any dealings with a country called Mixo-Lydia?”

“I have no idea,” said the robot. “Why do you ask?”

“Because my environment hauled back and took a poke at my jaw,” Martin said shortly.

“Then you provoked it,” ENIAC countered. “A crisis—a situation of stress—always brings a man’s dominant trait to the fore, and Disraeli was dominantly courageous. Under stress, his courage became insolence. But he was intelligent enough to arrange his environment so insolence would be countered on the semantic level. Mixo-Lydia, eh? I place it vaguely, some billions of years ago, when it was inhabited by giant white apes. Or—oh, now I remember. It’s an encysted medieval survival, isn’t it?”

Martin nodded.

“So is this movie studio,” the robot said. “Your trouble is that you’ve run up against somebody who’s got a better optimum ecological adjustment than you have. That’s it. This studio environment is just emerging from medievalism, so it can easily slip back into that plenum when an optimum medievalist exerts pressure. Such types caused the Dark Ages. Well, you’d better change your environment to a neo-technological one, where the Disraeli matrix can be successfully pro-survival. In your era, only a few archaic social-encystments like this studio are feudalistic, so go somewhere else. It takes a feudalist to match a feudalist.”

“But I can’t go somewhere else,” Martin complained. “Not without my contract release. I was supposed to pick it up tonight, but St. Cyr found out what was happening, and he’ll throw a monkey-wrench in the works if he has to knock me out again to do it. I’m due at Watt’s place now, but St. Cyr’s already there—”

“Spare me the trivia,” the robot said, raising his hand. “As for this St. Cyr, if he’s a medieval character-type, obviously he’ll knuckle under only to a stronger man of his own kind.”

“How would Disraeli have handled this?” Martin demanded.

“Disraeli would never have got into such a situation in the first place,” the robot said unhelpfully. “The ecologizer can give you the ideal ecological differential, but only for your own type, because otherwise it wouldn’t be your optimum. Disraeli would have been a failure in Russia in Ivan’s time.”

“Would you mind clarifying that?” Martin asked thoughtfully.

“Certainly,” the robot said with great rapidity. “It all depends on the threshold-response-time of the memory-circuits in the brain, if you assume the identity of the basic chromosome-pattern. The strength of neuronic activation varies in inverse proportion to the quantative memory factor. Only actual experience could give you Disraeli’s memories, but your reactivity-thresholds have been altered until perception and emotional-indices approximate the Disraeli ratio.”

“Oh,” Martin said. “But how would you, say, assert yourself against a medieval steam-shovel?”

“By plugging my demountable brain into a larger steam-shovel,” ENIAC told him.

Martin seemed pensive. His hand rose, adjusting an invisible monocle, while a look of perceptive imagination suddenly crossed his face.

“You mentioned Russia in Ivan’s time,” he said. “Which Ivan would that be? Not, by any chance—?”

“Ivan the Fourth. Very well adjusted to his environment he was, too. However, enough of this chitchat. Obviously you’ll be one of the failures in our experiment, but our aim is to strike an average, so if you’ll put the ecologizer on your—”

“That was Ivan the Terrible, wasn’t it?” Martin interrupted. “Look here, could you impress the character-matrix of Ivan the Terrible on my brain?”

“That wouldn’t help you a bit,” the robot said. “Besides, it’s not the purpose of the experiment. Now—”

“One moment. Disraeli can’t cope with a medievalist like St. Cyr on his own level, but if I had Ivan the Terrible’s reactive thresholds, I’ll bet I could throw a bluff that might do the trick. Even though St. Cyr’s bigger than I am, he’s got a veneer of civilization … now wait. He trades on that. He’s always dealt with people who are too civilized to use his own methods. The trick would be to call his bluff. And Ivan’s the man who could do it.”

“But you don’t understand.”

“Didn’t everybody in Russia tremble with fear at Ivan’s name?”

“Yes, in—”

“Very well, then,” Martin said triumphantly. “You’re going to impress the character-matrix, of Ivan the Terrible on my mind, and then I’m going to put the bite on St. Cyr, the way Ivan would have done it. Disraeli’s simply too civilized. Size is a factor, but character’s more important. I don’t look like Disraeli, but people have been reacting to me as though I were George Arliss down to the spit-curl. A good big man can always lick a good little man. But St. Cyr’s never been up against a really uncivilized little man—one who’d gladly rip out an enemy’s heart with his bare hands.” Martin nodded briskly. “St. Cyr will back down—I’ve found that out. But it would take somebody like Ivan to make him stay all the way down.”

“If you think I’m going to impress Ivan’s matrix on you, you’re wrong,” the robot said.

“You couldn’t be talked into it?”

“I,” said ENIAC, “am a robot, semantically adjusted. Of course you couldn’t talk me into it.”

Perhaps not, Martin reflected, but Disraeli—hm‑m. “Man is a machine.” Why, Disraeli was the one person in the world ideally fitted for robot-coercion. To him, men were machines—and what was ENIAC?

“Let’s talk this over—” Martin began, absently pushing the desk-lamp toward the robot. And then the golden tongue that had swayed empires was loosed. …

“You’re not going to like this,” the robot said dazedly, sometime later. “Ivan won’t do at … oh, you’ve got me all confused. You’ll have to eyeprint a—” He began to pull out of his sack the helmet and the quarter-mile of red ribbon.

“To tie up my bonny grey brain,” Martin said, drunk with his own rhetoric. “Put it on my head. That’s right. Ivan the Terrible, remember. I’ll fix St. Cyr’s Mixo-Lydian wagon.”

“Differential depends on environment as much as on heredity,” the robot muttered, clapping the helmet on Martin’s head. “Though naturally Ivan wouldn’t have had the Tsardom environment without his particular heredity, involving Helena Glinska—there!” He removed the helmet.

“But nothing’s happening,” Martin said. “I don’t feel any different.”

“It’ll take a few moments. This isn’t your basic character-pattern, remember, as Disraeli’s was. Enjoy yourself while you can. You’ll get the Ivan-effect soon enough.” He shouldered the sack and headed uncertainly for the door.

“Wait,” Martin said uneasily. “Are you sure—”

“Be quiet. I forgot something—some formality—now I’m all confused. Well, I’ll think of it later, or earlier, as the case may be. I’ll see you in twelve hours—I hope.”

The robot departed. Martin shook his head tentatively from side to side. Then he got up and followed ENIAC to the door. But there was no sign of the robot, except for a diminishing whirlwind of dust in the middle of the corridor.

Something began to happen in Martin’s brain. …

Behind him, the telephone rang.

Martin heard himself gasp with pure terror. With a sudden, impossible, terrifying, absolute certainty he knew who was telephoning.

Assassins!

“Yes, Mr. Martin,” said Tolliver Watt’s butler to the telephone. “Miss Ashby is here. She is with Mr. Watt and Mr. St. Cyr at the moment, but I will give her your message. You are detained. And she is to call for you—where?”

“The broom-closet on the second floor of the Writers’ Building,” Martin said in a quavering voice. “It’s the only one near a telephone with a long enough cord so I could take the phone in here with me. But I’m not at all certain that I’m safe. I don’t like the looks of that broom on my left.”

“Sir?”

“Are you sure you’re Tolliver Watt’s butler?” Martin demanded nervously.

“Quite sure, Mr.—eh—Mr. Martin.”

“I am Mr. Martin,” cried Martin with terrified defiance. “By all the laws of God and man, Mr. Martin I am and Mr. Martin I will remain, in spite of all attempts by rebellious dogs to depose me from my rightful place.”

“Yes, sir. The broom-closet, you say, sir?”

“The broom-closet. Immediately. But swear not to tell another soul, no matter how much you’re threatened. I’ll protect you.”

“Very well, sir. Is that all?”

“Yes. Tell Miss Ashby to hurry. Hang up now. The line may be tapped. I have enemies.”

There was a click. Martin replaced his own receiver and furtively surveyed the broom-closet. He told himself that this was ridiculous. There was nothing to be afraid of, was there? True, the broom-closet’s narrow walls were closing in upon him alarmingly, while the ceiling descended. …

Panic-stricken, Martin emerged from the closet, took a long breath, and threw back his shoulders. “N‑not a thing to be afraid of,” he said. “Who’s afraid?” Whistling, he began to stroll down the hall toward the staircase, but midway agoraphobia overcame him, and his nerve broke.

He ducked into his own office and sweated quietly in the dark until he had mustered up enough courage to turn on a lamp.

The Encyclopedia Britannica, in its glass-fronted cabinet, caught his eye. With noiseless haste, Martin secured Italy to Lord and opened the volume at his desk. Something, obviously, was very, very wrong. The robot had said that Martin wasn’t going to like being Ivan the Terrible, come to think of it. But was Martin wearing Ivan’s character-matrix? Perhaps he’d got somebody else’s matrix by mistake—that of some arrant coward. Or maybe the Mad Tsar of Russia had really been called Ivan the Terrified. Martin flipped the rustling pages nervously. Ivan, Ivan—here it was.

Son of Helena Glinska … married Anastasia Zakharina-Koshkina … private life unspeakably abominable … memory astonishing, energy indefatigable, ungovernable fury—great natural ability, political foresight, anticipated the ideals of Peter the Great—Martin shook his head.

Then he caught his breath at the next line.

Ivan had lived in an atmosphere of apprehension, imagining that every man’s hand was against him.

“Just like me,” Martin murmured. “But—but there was more to Ivan than just cowardice. I don’t understand.”

“Differential,” the robot had said, “depends on environment as much as on heredity. Though naturally Ivan wouldn’t have had the Tsardom environment without his particular heredity.”

Martin sucked in his breath sharply. Environment does make a difference. No doubt Ivan IV had been a fearful coward, but heredity plus environment had given Ivan the one great weapon that had enabled him to keep his cowardice a recessive trait.

Ivan the Terrible had been Tsar of all the Russias.

Give a coward a gun, and, while he doesn’t stop being a coward, it won’t show in the same way. He may act like a violent, aggressive tyrant instead. That, of course, was why Ivan had been ecologically successful—in his specialized environment. He’d never run up against many stresses that brought his dominant trait to the fore. Like Disraeli, he had been able to control his environment so that such stresses were practically eliminated.

Martin turned green.

Then he remembered Erika. Could he get Erika to keep St. Cyr busy, somehow, while he got his contract release from Watt? As long as he could avoid crises, he could keep his nerve from crumbling, but—there were assassins everywhere!

Erika was on her way to the lot by now. Martin swallowed.

He would meet her outside the studio. The broom-closet wasn’t safe. He could be trapped there like a rat—

“Nonsense,” Martin told himself with shivering firmness. “This isn’t me. All I have to do is get a g‑grip on m‑myself. Come, now. Buck up. Toujours l’audace!”

But he went out of his office and downstairs very softly and cautiously. After all, one never knew. And when every man’s hand was against one. …

Quaking, the character-matrix of Ivan the Terrible stole toward a studio gate.

The taxi drove rapidly toward Bel-Air.

“But what were you doing up that tree?” Erika demanded.

Martin shook violently.

“A werewolf,” he chattered. “And a vampire and a ghoul and—I saw them, I tell you. There I was at the studio gate, and they all came at me in a mob.”

“But they were just coming back from dinner,” Erika said. “You know Summit’s doing night shooting on Abbott and Costello Meet Everybody. Karloff wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“I kept telling myself that,” Martin said dully, “but I was out of my mind with guilt and fear. You see, I’m an abominable monster. But it’s not my fault. It’s environmental. I grew up in brutal and degrading conditions—oh, look!” He pointed toward a traffic cop ahead. “The police! Traitors even in the palace guards!”

“Lady, is that guy nuts?” the cabbie demanded.

“Mad or sane, I am Nicholas Martin,” Martin announced, with an abrupt volte face. He tried to stand up commandingly, bumped his head, screamed “Assassins!” and burrowed into a corner of the seat, panting horribly.

Erika gave him a thoughtful, worried look.

“Nick,” she said, “how much have you had to drink? What’s wrong?”

Martin shut his eyes and lay back against the cushions.

“Let me have a few minutes, Erika,” he pleaded. “I’ll be all right as soon as I recover from stress. It’s only when I’m under stress that Ivan—”

“You can accept your contract release from Watt, can’t you? Surely you’ll be able to manage that.”

“Of course,” Martin said with feeble bravery. He thought it over and reconsidered. “If I can hold your hand,” he suggested, taking no chances.

This disgusted Erika so much that for two miles there was no more conversation within the cab.

Erika had been thinking her own thoughts.

“You’ve certainly changed since this morning,” she observed. “Threatening to make love to me, of all things. As if I’d stand for it. I’d like to see you try.” There was a pause. Erika slid her eyes sidewise toward Martin. “I said I’d like to see you try,” she repeated.

“Oh, you would, would you?” Martin said with hollow valor. He paused. Oddly enough his tongue, hitherto frozen stiff on one particular subject in Erika’s presence, was now thoroughly loosened. Martin wasted no time on theory. Seizing his chance before a new stress might unexpectedly arise, he instantly poured out his heart to Erika, who visibly softened.

“But why didn’t you ever say so before?” she asked.

“I can’t imagine,” Martin said. “Then you’ll marry me?”

“But why were you acting so—”

“Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” Erika said, and there was a pause. Martin moistened his lips, discovering that somehow he and Erika had moved close together. He was about to seal the bargain in the customary manner when a sudden thought struck him and made him draw back with a little start.

Erika opened her eyes.

“Ah—” said Martin. “Um. I just happened to remember. There’s a bad flu epidemic in Chicago. Epidemics spread like wildfire, you know. Why, it could be in Hollywood by now—especially with the prevailing westerly winds.”

“I’m damned if I’m going to be proposed to and not kissed,” Erika said in a somewhat irritated tone. “You kiss me!”

“But I might give you bubonic plague,” Martin said nervously. “Kissing spreads germs. It’s a well-known fact.”

“Nick!”

“Well—I don’t know—when did you last have a cold?”

Erika pulled away from him and went to sit in the other corner.

“Ah,” Martin said, after a long silence. “Erika?”

“Don’t talk to me, you miserable man,” Erika said. “You monster, you.”

“I can’t help it,” Martin cried wildly. “I’ll be a coward for twelve hours. It’s not my fault. After eight tomorrow morning I’ll—I’ll walk into a lion-cage if you want, but tonight I’m as yellow as Ivan the Terrible! At least let me tell you what’s been happening.”

Erika said nothing. Martin instantly plunged into his long and improbable tale.

“I don’t believe a word of it,” Erika said, when he had finished. She shook her head sharply. “Just the same, I’m still your agent, and your career’s still my responsibility. The first and only thing we have to do is get your contract release from Tolliver Watt. And that’s all we’re going to consider right now, do you hear?”

“But St. Cyr—”

“I’ll do all the talking. You won’t have to say a word. If St. Cyr tries to bully you, I’ll handle him. But you’ve got to be there with me, or St. Cyr will make that an excuse to postpone things again. I know him.”

“Now I’m under stress again,” Martin said wildly. “I can’t stand it. I’m not the Tsar of Russia.”

“Lady,” said the cabdriver, looking back, “if I was you, I’d sure as hell break off that engagement.”

“Heads will roll for this,” Martin said ominously.

“By mutual consent, agree to terminate … yes,” Watt said, affixing his name to the legal paper that lay before him on the desk. “That does it. But where in the world is that fellow Martin? He came in with you, I’m certain.”

“Did he?” Erika asked, rather wildly. She too, was wondering how Martin had managed to vanish so miraculously from her side. Perhaps he had crept with lightning rapidity under the carpet. She forced her mind from the thought and reached for the contract release Watt was folding.

“Wait,” St. Cyr said, his lower lip jutting. “What about a clause giving us an option on Martin’s next play?”

Watt paused, and the director instantly struck home.

“Whatever it may be, I can turn it into a vehicle for DeeDee, eh, DeeDee?” He lifted a sausage finger at the lovely star, who nodded obediently.

“It’s going to have an all-male cast,” Erika said hastily. “And we’re discussing contract releases, not options.”

“He would give me an option if I had him here,” St. Cyr growled, torturing his cigar horribly. “Why does everything conspire against an artist?” He waved a vast, hairy fist in the air. “Now I must break in a new writer, which is a great waste. Within a fortnight Martin would have been a St. Cyr writer. In fact, it is still possible.”

“I’m afraid not, Raoul,” Watt said resignedly. “You really shouldn’t have hit Martin at the studio today.”

“But—but he would not dare charge me with assault. In Mixo-Lydia—”

“Why, hello, Nick,” DeeDee said, with a bright smile. “What are you hiding behind those curtains for?”

Every eye was turned toward the window draperies, just in time to see the white, terrified face of Nicholas Martin flip out of sight like a scared chipmunk’s. Erika, her heart dropping, said hastily, “Oh, that isn’t Nick. It doesn’t look a bit like him. You made a mistake, DeeDee.”

“Did I?” DeeDee asked, perfectly willing to agree.

“Certainly,” Erika said, reaching for the contract release in Watt’s hand. “Now if you’ll just let me have this, I’ll—”

“Stop!” cried St. Cyr in a bull’s bellow. Head sunk between his heavy shoulders, he lumbered to the window and jerked the curtains aside.

“Ha!” the director said in a sinister voice. “Martin.”

“It’s a lie,” Martin said feebly, making a desperate attempt to conceal his stress-triggered panic. “I’ve abdicated.”

St. Cyr, who had stepped back a pace, was studying Martin carefully. Slowly the cigar in his mouth began to tilt upwards. An unpleasant grin widened the director’s mouth.

He shook a finger under Martin’s quivering nostrils.

“You!” he said. “Tonight it is a different tune, eh? Today you were drunk. Now I see it all. Valorous with pots, like they say.”

“Nonsense,” Martin said, rallying his courage by a glance at Erika. “Who say? Nobody but you would say a thing like that. Now what’s this all about?”

“What were you doing behind that curtain?” Watt asked.

“I wasn’t behind the curtain,” Martin said, with great bravado. “You were. All of you. I was in front of the curtain. Can I help it if the whole lot of you conceal yourselves behind curtains in a library, like—like conspirators?” The word was unfortunately chosen. A panicky light flashed into Martin’s eyes. “Yes, conspirators,” he went on nervously. “You think I don’t know, eh? Well, I do. You’re all assassins, plotting and planning. So this is your headquarters, is it? All night your hired dogs have been at my heels, driving me like a wounded caribou to—”

“We’ve got to be going,” Erika said desperately. “There’s just time to catch the next carib—the next plane east.” She reached for the contract release, but Watt suddenly put it in his pocket. He turned his chair toward Martin.

“Will you give us an option on your next play?” he demanded.

“Of course he will give us an option!” St. Cyr said, studying Martin’s air of bravado with an experienced eye. “Also, there is to be no question of a charge of assault, for, if there is I will beat you. So it is in Mixo-Lydia. In fact, you do not even want a release from your contract, Martin. It is all a mistake. I will turn you into a St. Cyr writer, and all will be well. So. Now you will ask Tolliver to tear up that release, will you not—ha?”

“Of course you won’t, Nick,” Erika cried. “Say so!”

There was a pregnant silence. Watt watched with sharp interest. So did the unhappy Erika, torn between her responsibility as Martin’s agent and her disgust at the man’s abject cowardice. DeeDee watched too, her eyes very wide and a cheerful smile upon her handsome face. But the battle was obviously between Martin and Raoul St. Cyr.

Martin drew himself up desperately. Now or never he must force himself to be truly Terrible. Already he had a troubled expression, just like Ivan. He strove to look sinister too. An enigmatic smile played around his lips. For an instant he resembled the Mad Tsar of Russia, except, of course, that he was clean-shaven. With contemptuous, regal power Martin stared down the Mixo-Lydian.

“You will tear up that release and sign an agreement giving us option on your next play too, ha?” St. Cyr said—but a trifle uncertainly.

“I’ll do as I please,” Martin told him. “How would you like to be eaten alive by dogs?”

“I don’t know, Raoul,” Watt said. “Let’s try to get this settled even if—”

“Do you want me to go over to Metro and take DeeDee with me?” St. Cyr cried, turning toward Watt. “He will sign!” And, reaching into an inner pocket for a pen, the burly director swung back toward Martin.

“Assassin!” cried Martin, misinterpreting the gesture.

A gloating smile appeared on St. Cyr’s revolting features.

“Now we have him, Tolliver,” he said, with heavy triumph, and these ominous words added the final stress to Martin’s overwhelming burden. With a mad cry he rushed past St. Cyr, wrenched open a door, and fled.

From behind him came Erika’s Valkyrie voice.

“Leave him alone! Haven’t you done enough already? Now I’m going to get that contract release from you before I leave this room, Tolliver Watt, and I warn you, St. Cyr, if you—”

But by then Martin was five rooms away, and the voice faded. He darted on, hopelessly trying to make himself slow down and return to the scene of battle. The pressure was too strong. Terror hurled him down a corridor, into another room, and against a metallic object from which he rebounded, to find himself sitting on the floor looking up at ENIAC Gamma the Ninety-Third.

“Ah, there you are,” the robot said. “I’ve been searching all over space-time for you. You forgot to give me a waiver of responsibility when you talked me into varying the experiment. The Authorities would be in my gears if I didn’t bring back an eyeprinted waiver when a subject’s scratched by variance.”

With a frightened glance behind him, Martin rose to his feet.

“What?” he asked confusedly. “Listen, you’ve got to change me back to myself. Everyone’s trying to kill me. You’re just in time. I can’t wait twelve hours. Change me back to myself, quick!”

“Oh, I’m through with you,” the robot said callously. “You’re no longer a suitably unconditioned subject, after that last treatment you insisted on. I should have got the waiver from you then, but you got me all confused with Disraeli’s oratory. Now here. Just hold this up to your left eye for twenty seconds.” He extended a flat, glittering little metal disk. “It’s already sensitized and filled out. It only needs your eyeprint. Affix it, and you’ll never see me again.”

Martin shrank away.

“But what’s going to happen to me?” he quavered, swallowing.

“How should I know? After twelve hours, the treatment will wear off, and you’ll be yourself again. Hold this up to your eye, now.”

“I will if you’ll change me back to myself,” Martin haggled.

“I can’t. It’s against the rules. One variance is bad enough, even with a filed waiver, but two? Oh, no. Hold this up to your left eye—”

“No,” Martin said with feeble firmness. “I won’t.”

ENIAC studied him.

“Yes, you will,” the robot said finally, “or I’ll go boo at you.”

Martin paled slightly, but he shook his head in desperate determination.

“No,” he said doggedly. “Unless I get rid of Ivan’s matrix right now, Erika will never marry me and I’ll never get my contract release from Watt. All you have to do is put that helmet on my head and change me back to myself. Is that too much to ask?”

“Certainly, of a robot,” ENIAC said stiffly. “No more shilly-shallying. It’s lucky you are wearing the Ivan-matrix, so I can impose my will on you. Put your eyeprint on this. Instantly!”

Martin rushed behind the couch and hid. The robot advanced menacingly. And at that moment, pushed to the last ditch, Martin suddenly remembered something.

He faced the robot.

“Wait,” he said. “You don’t understand. I can’t eyeprint that thing. It won’t work on me. Don’t you realize that? It’s supposed to take the eyeprint—”

“—of the rod-and-cone pattern of the retina,” the robot said. “So—”

“So how can it do that unless I can keep my eye open for twenty seconds? My perceptive reaction-thresholds are Ivan’s aren’t they? I can’t control the reflex of blinking. I’ve got a coward’s synapses. And they’d force me to shut my eyes tight the second that gimmick got too close to them.”

“Hold them open,” the robot suggested. “With your fingers.”

“My fingers have reflexes too,” Martin argued, moving toward a sideboard. “There’s only one answer. I’ve got to get drunk. If I’m half stupefied with liquor, my reflexes will be so slow I won’t be able to shut my eyes. And don’t try to use force, either. If I dropped dead with fear, how could you get my eyeprint then?”

“Very easily,” the robot said. “I’d pry open your lids—”

Martin hastily reached for a bottle on the sideboard, and a glass. But his hand swerved aside and gripped, instead, a siphon of soda water.

“—only,” ENIAC went on, “the forgery might be detected.”

Martin fizzled the glass full of soda and took a long drink.

“I won’t be long getting drunk,” he said, his voice thickening. “In fact, it’s beginning to work already. See? I’m cooperating.”

The robot hesitated.

“Well, hurry up about it,” he said, and sat down.

Martin, about to take another drink, suddenly paused, staring at ENIAC. Then, with a sharply indrawn breath, he lowered the glass.

“What’s the matter now?” the robot asked. “Drink your—what is it?”

“It’s whiskey,” Martin told the inexperienced automaton, “but now I see it all. You’ve put poison in it. So that’s your plan, is it? Well, I won’t touch another drop, and now you’ll never get my eyeprint. I’m no fool.”

“Cog Almighty,” the robot said, rising. “You poured that drink yourself. How could I have poisoned it? Drink!”

“I won’t,” Martin said, with a coward’s stubbornness, fighting back the growing suspicion that the drink might really be toxic.

“You swallow that drink,” ENIAC commanded, his voice beginning to quiver slightly. “It’s perfectly harmless.”

“Then prove it!” Martin said cunningly. “Would you be willing to switch glasses? Would you drink this poisoned brew yourself?”

“How do you expect me to drink?” the robot demanded. “I—” He paused. “All right, hand me the glass,” he said. “I’ll take a sip. Then you’ve got to drink the rest of it.”

“Aha!” Martin said. “You betrayed yourself that time. You’re a robot. You can’t drink, remember? Not the same way that I can, anyhow. Now I’ve got you trapped, you assassin. There’s your brew.” He pointed to a floor-lamp. “Do you dare to drink with me now, in your electrical fashion, or do you admit you are trying to poison me? Wait a minute, what am I saying? That wouldn’t prove a—”

“Of course it would,” the robot said hastily. “You’re perfectly right, and it’s very cunning of you. We’ll drink together, and that will prove your whiskey’s harmless—so you’ll keep on drinking till your reflexes slow down, see?”

“Well,” Martin began uncertainly, but the unscrupulous robot unscrewed a bulb from the floor lamp, pulled the switch, and inserted his finger into the empty socket, which caused a crackling flash. “There,” the robot said. “It isn’t poisoned, see?”

“You’re not swallowing it,” Martin said suspiciously. “You’re holding it in your mouth—I mean your finger.”

ENIAC again probed the socket.

“Well, all right, perhaps,” Martin said, in a doubtful fashion. “But I’m not going to risk your slipping a powder in my liquor, you traitor. You’re going to keep up with me, drink for drink, until I can eyeprint that gimmick of yours—or else I stop drinking. But does sticking your finger in that lamp really prove my liquor isn’t poisoned? I can’t quite—”

“Of course it does,” the robot said quickly. “I’ll prove it. I’ll do it again … f(t). Powerful DC, isn’t it? Certainly it proves it. Keep drinking, now.”

His gaze watchfully on the robot, Martin lifted his glass of club soda.

“F ff ff f(t)!” cried the robot, some time later, sketching a singularly loose smile on its metallic face.

“Best fermented mammoth’s milk I ever tasted,” Martin agreed, lifting his tenth glass of soda-water. He felt slightly queasy and wondered if he might be drowning.

“Mammoth’s milk?” asked ENIAC thickly. “What year is this?”

Martin drew a long breath. Ivan’s capacious memory had served him very well so far. Voltage, he recalled, increased the frequency of the robot’s thought-patterns and disorganized ENIAC’s memory—which was being proved before his eyes. But the crux of his plan was yet to come. …

“The year of the great Hairy One, of course,” Martin said briskly. “Don’t you remember?”

“Then you—” ENIAC strove to focus upon his drinking-companion. “You must be Mammoth-Slayer.”

“That’s it!” Martin cried. “Have another jolt. What about giving me the treatment now?”

“What treatment?”

Martin looked impatient. “You said you were going to impose the character-matrix of Mammoth-Slayer on my mind. You said that would insure my optimum ecological adjustment in this temporal phase, and nothing else would.”

“Did I? But you’re not Mammoth-Slayer,” ENIAC said confusedly. “Mammoth-Slayer was the son of the Great Hairy One. What’s your mother’s name?”

“The Great Hairy One,” Martin replied, at which the robot grated its hand across its gleaming forehead.

“Have one more jolt,” Martin suggested. “Now take out the ecologizer and put it on my head.”

“Like this?” ENIAC asked, obeying. “I keep feeling I’ve forgotten something important. F (t).”

Martin adjusted the crystal helmet on his skull. “Now,” he commanded. “Give me the character-matrix of Mammoth-Slayer, son of the Great Hairy One.”

“Well—all right,” ENIAC said dizzily. The red ribbons swirled. There was a flash from the helmet. “There,” the robot said. “It’s done. It may take a few minutes to begin functioning, but then for twelve hours you’ll—wait! Where are you going?”

But Martin had already departed.

The robot stuffed the helmet and the quarter-mile of red ribbon back for the last time. He lurched to the floor-lamp, muttering something about one for the road. Afterward, the room lay empty. A fading murmur said, “F(t).”

“Nick!” Erika gasped, staring at the figure in the doorway. “Don’t stand like that! You frighten me!”

Everyone in the room looked up abruptly at her cry, and so were just in time to see a horrifying change take place in Martin’s shape. It was an illusion, of course, but an alarming one. His knees slowly bent until he was half-crouching, his shoulders slumped as though bowed by the weight of enormous back and shoulder muscles, and his arms swung forward until their knuckles hung perilously near the floor.

Nicholas Martin had at last achieved a personality whose ecological norm would put him on a level with Raoul St. Cyr.

“Nick!” Erika quavered.

Slowly Martin’s jaw protruded till his lower teeth were hideously visible. Gradually his eyelids dropped until he was peering up out of tiny, wicked sockets. Then, slowly, a perfectly shocking grin broadened Mr. Martin’s mouth.

“Erika,” he said throatily. “Mine!”

And with that, he shambled forward, seized the horrified girl in his arms, and bit her on the ear.

“Oh, Nick,” Erika murmured, closing her eyes. “Why didn’t you ever—no, no, no! Nick! Stop it! The contract release. We’ve got to—Nick, what are you doing?” She snatched at Martin’s departing form, but too late.

For all his ungainly and unpleasant gait, Martin covered ground fast. Almost instantly he was clambering over Watt’s desk as the most direct route to that startled tycoon. DeeDee looked on, a little surprised. St. Cyr lunged forward.

“In Mixo-Lydia—” he began. “Ha! So!” He picked up Martin and threw him across the room.

“Oh, you beast,” Erika cried, and flung herself upon the director, beating at his brawny chest. On second thought, she used her shoes on his shins with more effect. St. Cyr, no gentleman, turned her around, pinioned her arms behind her, and glanced up at Watt’s alarmed cry.

“Martin! What are you doing?”

There was reason for his inquiry. Apparently unhurt by St. Cyr’s toss, Martin had hit the floor, rolled over and over like a ball, knocked down a floor-lamp with a crash, and uncurled, with an unpleasant expression on his face. He rose crouching, bandy-legged, his arms swinging low, a snarl curling his lips.

“You take my mate?” the pithecanthropic Mr. Martin inquired throatily, rapidly losing all touch with the twentieth century. It was a rhetorical question. He picked up the lamp-standard—he did not have to bend to do it—tore off the silk shade as he would have peeled foliage from a tree-limb, and balanced the weapon in his hand. Then he moved forward, carrying the lamp-standard like a spear.

“I,” said Martin, “kill.”

He then endeavored, with the most admirable single-heartedness, to carry out his expressed intention. The first thrust of the blunt, improvised spear rammed into St. Cyr’s solar plexus and drove him back against the wall with a booming thud. This seemed to be what Martin wanted. Keeping one end of his spear pressed into the director’s belly, he crouched lower, dug his toes into the rug, and did his very best to drill a hole in St. Cyr.

“Stop it!” cried Watt, flinging himself into the conflict. Ancient reflexes took over. Martin’s arm shot out. Watt shot off in the opposite direction.

The lamp broke.

Martin looked pensively at the pieces, tentatively began to bite one, changed his mind, and looked at St. Cyr instead. The gasping director, mouthing threats, curses and objections, drew himself up, and shook a huge fist at Martin.

“I,” he announced, “shall kill you with my bare hands. Then I go over to M.G.M. with DeeDee. In Mixo-Lydia—”

Martin lifted his own fists toward his face. He regarded them. He unclenched them slowly, while a terrible grin spread across his face. And then, with every tooth showing, and with the hungry gleam of a mad tiger in his tiny little eyes, he lifted his gaze to St. Cyr’s throat.

Mammoth-Slayer was not the son of the Great Hairy One for nothing.

Martin sprang.

So did St. Cyr—in another direction, screaming with sudden terror. For, after all, he was only a medievalist. The feudal man is far more civilized than the so-called man of Mammoth-Slayer’s primordially direct era, and as a man recoils from a small but murderous wildcat, so St. Cyr fled in sudden civilized horror from an attacker who was, literally, afraid of nothing.

He sprang through the window and, shrieking, vanished into the night.

Martin was taken by surprise. When Mammoth-Slayer leaped at an enemy, the enemy leaped at him too, and so Martin’s head slammed against the wall with disconcerting force. Dimly he heard diminishing, terrified cries. Laboriously he crawled to his feet and set back against the wall, snarling, quite ready. …

“Nick!” Erika’s voice called. “Nick, it’s me! Stop it! Stop it! DeeDee—”

“Ugh?” Martin said thickly, shaking his head. “Kill.” He growled softly, blinking through red-rimmed little eyes at the scene around him. It swam back slowly into focus. Erika was struggling with DeeDee near the window.

“You let me go,” DeeDee cried. “Where Raoul goes, I go.”

“DeeDee!” pleaded a new voice. Martin glanced aside to see Tolliver Watt crumpled in a corner, a crushed lampshade half obscuring his face.

With a violent effort Martin straightened up. Walking upright seemed unnatural, somehow, but it helped submerge Mammoth-Slayer’s worst instincts. Besides, with St. Cyr gone, stresses were slowly subsiding, so that Mammoth-Slayer’s dominant trait was receding from the active foreground.

Martin tested his tongue cautiously, relieved to find he was still capable of human speech.

“Uh,” he said. “Arrgh … ah. Watt.”

Watt blinked at him anxiously through the lampshade.

“Urgh … Ur—release,” Martin said, with a violent effort. “Contract release. Gimme.”

Watt had courage. He crawled to his feet, removing the lampshade.

“Contract release!” he snapped. “You madman! Don’t you realize what you’ve done? DeeDee’s walking out on me. DeeDee, don’t go. We will bring Raoul back—”

“Raoul told me to quit if he quit,” DeeDee said stubbornly.

“You don’t have to do what St. Cyr tells you,” Erika said, hanging onto the struggling star.

“Don’t I?” DeeDee asked, astonished. “Yes, I do. I always have.”

“DeeDee,” Watt said frantically, “I’ll give you the finest contract on earth—a ten-year contract—look, here it is.” He tore out a well-creased document. “All you have to do is sign, and you can have anything you want. Wouldn’t you like that?”

“Oh, yes,” DeeDee said. “But Raoul wouldn’t like it.” She broke free from Erika.

“Martin!” Watt told the playwright frantically, “Get St. Cyr back. Apologize to him. I don’t care how, but get him back! If you don’t, I—I’ll never give you your release.”

Martin was observed to slump slightly—perhaps with hopelessness. Then, again, perhaps not.

“I’m sorry,” DeeDee said. “I liked working for you, Tolliver. But I have to do what Raoul says, of course.” And she moved toward the window.

Martin had slumped further down, till his knuckles quite brushed the rug. His angry little eyes, glowing with baffled rage, were fixed on DeeDee. Slowly his lips peeled back, exposing every tooth in his head.

“You,” he said, in an ominous growl.

DeeDee paused, but only briefly.

Then the enraged roar of a wild beast reverberated through the room. “You come back!” bellowed the infuriated Mammoth-Slayer, and with one agile bound sprang to the window, seized DeeDee and slung her under one arm. Wheeling, he glared jealously at the shrinking Watt and reached for Erika. In a trice he had the struggling forms of both girls captive, one under each arm. His wicked little eyes glanced from one to another. Then, playing no favorites, he bit each quickly on the ear.

“Nick!” Erika cried. “How dare you!”

“Mine,” Mammoth-Slayer informed her hoarsely.

“You bet I am,” Erika said, “but that works both ways. Put down that hussy you’ve got under your other arm.”

Mammoth-Slayer was observed to eye DeeDee doubtfully.

“Well,” Erika said tartly, “make up your mind.”

“Both,” said the uncivilized playwright. “Yes.”

“No!” Erika said.

“Yes,” DeeDee breathed in an entirely new tone. Limp as a dishrag, the lovely creature hung from Martin’s arm and gazed up at her captor with idolatrous admiration.

“Oh, you hussy,” Erika said. “What about St. Cyr?”

“Him,” DeeDee said scornfully. “He hasn’t got a thing, the sissy. I’ll never look at him again.” She turned her adoring gaze back to Martin.

“Pah,” the latter grunted, tossing DeeDee into Watt’s lap. “Yours. Keep her.” He grinned approvingly at Erika. “Strong she. Better.”

Both Watt and DeeDee remained motionless, staring at Martin.

“You,” he said, thrusting a finger at DeeDee. “You stay with him. Ha?” He indicated Watt.

DeeDee nodded in slavish adoration.

“You sign contract?”

Nod.

Martin looked significantly into Watt’s eyes. He extended his hand.

“The contract release,” Erika explained, upside-down. “Give it to him before he pulls your head off.”

Slowly Watt pulled the contract release from his pocket and held it out. But Martin was already shambling toward the window. Erika reached back hastily and snatched the document.

“That was a wonderful act,” she told Nick, as they reached the street. “Put me down now. We can find a cab some—”

“No act,” Martin growled. “Real. Till tomorrow. After that—” He shrugged. “But tonight, Mammoth-Slayer.” He attempted to climb a palm tree, changed his mind, and shambled on, carrying the now pensive Erika. But it was not until a police car drove past that Erika screamed. …

“I’ll bail you out tomorrow,” Erika told Mammoth-Slayer, struggling between two large patrolmen.

Her words were drowned in an infuriated bellow.

Thereafter events blurred, to solidify again for the irate Mammoth-Slayer only when he was thrown in a cell, where he picked himself up with a threatening roar. “I kill!” he announced, seizing the bars.

“Arrrgh!”

“Two in one night,” said a bored voice, moving away outside. “Both in Bel-Air, too. Think they’re hopped up? We couldn’t get a coherent story out of either one.”

The bars shook. An annoyed voice from one of the bunks said to shut up, and added that there had been already enough trouble from nincompoops without—here it paused, hesitated, and uttered a shrill, sharp, piercing cry.

Silence prevailed, momentarily, in the cellblock as Mammoth-Slayer, son of the Great Hairy One, turned slowly to face Raoul St. Cyr.

Where the World Is Quiet

Fra Rafael drew the llama-wool blanket closer about his narrow shoulders, shivering in the cold wind that screamed down from Huascan. His face held great pain. I rose, walked to the door of the hut and peered through fog at the shadowy haunted lands that lifted toward the sky—the Cordilleras that make a rampart along Peru’s eastern border.

“There’s nothing,” I said. “Only the fog, Fra Rafael.”

He made the sign of the cross on his breast. “It is the fog that brings the—the terror,” he said. “I tell you, Señor White, I have seen strange things these last few months—impossible things. You are a scientist. Though we are not of the same religion, you also know that there are powers not of this earth.”

I didn’t answer, so he went on: “Three months ago it began, after the earthquake. A native girl disappeared. She was seen going into the mountains, toward Huascan along the Pass, and she did not come back. I sent men out to find her. They went up the Pass, found the fog grew thicker and thicker until they were blind and could see nothing. Fear came to them and they fled back down the mountain. A week later another girl vanished. We found her footprints.”

“The same canyon?”

“Si, and the same result. Now seven girls have gone, one after the other, all in the same way. And I, Señor White—” Fra Rafael’s pale, tired face was sad as he glanced down at the stumps of his legs—“I could not follow, as you see. Four years ago an avalanche crippled me. My bishop told me to return to Lima, but I prevailed on him to let me remain here for these natives are my people, Señor. They know and trust me. The loss of my legs has not altered that.”

I nodded. “I can see the difficulty now, though.”

“Exactly. I cannot go to Huascan and find out what has happened to the girls. The natives—well, I chose four of the strongest and bravest and asked them to take me up the Pass. I thought that I could overcome their superstitions. But I was not successful.”

“How far did you go?” I asked.

“A few miles, not more than that. The fog grew thicker, until we were blinded by it, and the way was dangerous. I could not make the men go on.” Fra Rafael closed his eyes wearily. “They talked of old Inca gods and devils—Manco Capac and Oello Huaco, the Children of the Sun. They are very much afraid, Señor White. They huddle together like sheep and believe that an ancient god has returned and is taking them away one by one. And—one by one they are taken.”

“Only young girls,” I mused. “And no coercion is used, apparently. What’s up toward Huascan?”

“Nothing but wild llamas and the condors. And snow, cold, desolation. These are the Andes, my friend.”

“Okay,” I said. “It sounds interesting. As an anthropologist I owe it to the Foundation to investigate. Besides, I’m curious. Superficially, there is nothing very strange about the affair. Seven girls have disappeared in the unusually heavy fogs we’ve had ever since the earthquake. Nothing more.”

I smiled at him. “However, I think I’ll take a look around and see what’s so attractive about Huascan.”

“I shall pray for you,” he said. “Perhaps—well, Señor, for all the loss of my legs, I am not a weak man. I can stand much hardship. I can ride a burro.”

“I don’t doubt your willingness, Fra Rafael,” I said. “But it’s necessary to be practical. It’s dangerous and it’s cold up there. Your presence would only handicap me. Alone, I can go faster—remember, I don’t know how far I’ll have to travel.”

The priest sighed. “I suppose you are right. When—”

“Now. My burro’s packed.”

“Your porters?”

“They won’t go,” I said wryly. “They’ve been talking to your villagers. It doesn’t matter. I’ll go it alone.” I put out my hand, and Fra Rafael gripped it strongly.

“Vaya con Dios,” he said.

I went out into the bright Peruvian sunlight. The Indios were standing in straggling knots, pretending not to watch me. My porters were nowhere in evidence. I grinned, yelled a sardonic goodbye, and started to lead the burro toward the Pass.

The fog vanished as the sun rose, but it still lay in the mountain canyons toward the west. A condor circled against the sky. In the thin, sharp air the sound of a distant rockfall was distinctly audible.

White Huascan towered far away. A shadow fell on me as I entered the Pass. The burro plodded on, patient and obedient. I felt a little chill; the fog began to thicken.

Yes, the Indios had talked to me. I knew their language, their old religion. Bastard descendants of the Incas, they still preserved a deep-rooted belief in the ancient gods of their ancient race, who had fallen with Huayna Capac, the Great Inca, a year before Pizarro came raging into Peru. I knew the Quichua—the old tongue of the mother race—and so I learned more than I might have otherwise.

Yet I had not learned much. The Indios said that something had come into the mountains near Huascan. They were willing to talk about it, but they knew little. They shrugged with apathetic fatalism. It called the young virgins, no doubt for a sacrifice. Quien sabe? Certainly the strange, thickening fog was not of this earth. Never before in the history of mankind had there been such a fog. It was, of course, the earthquake that had brought the—the Visitant. And it was folly to seek it out.

Well, I was an anthropologist and knew the value of even such slight clues as this. Moreover, my job for the Foundation was done. My specimens had been sent through to Callao by pack-train, and my notes were safe with Fra Rafael. Also, I was young and the lure of far places and their mysteries was hot in my blood. I hoped I’d find something odd—even dangerous—at Huascan.

I was young. Therefore, somewhat of a fool. …

The first night I camped in a little cave, sheltered from the wind and snug enough in my fleece-lined sleeping-bag. There were no insects at this height. It was impossible to make a fire for there was no wood. I worried a bit about the burro freezing in the night.

But he survived, and I repacked him the next morning with rather absurd cheerfulness. The fog was thick, yes, but not impenetrable.

There were tracks in the snow where the wind had not covered them. A girl had left the village the day before my arrival, which made my task all the easier. So I went up into that vast, desolate silence, the fog closing in steadily, getting thicker and thicker, the trail getting narrower until at last it was a mere track.

And then I was moving blind. I had to feel my way, step by step, leading the burro. Occasional tracks showed through the mist, showed that the native girl had walked swiftly—had run in places—so I assumed that the fog was less dense when she had come by this way. As it happened, I was quite wrong about that. …

We were on a narrow path above a gorge when I lost the burro. I heard a scrambling and clashing of hoofs on rock behind me. The rope jerked out of my hand and the animal cried out almost articulately as it went over. I stood frozen, pressing against the stone, listening to the sound of the burro’s fall. Finally the distant noise died in a faint trickling of snow and gravel that faded into utter silence. So thick was the fog that I had seen nothing.

I felt my way back to where the path had crumbled and rotten rock had given way under the burro’s weight. It was possible for me to retrace my steps, but I did not. I was sure that my destination could not be much further. A lightly clad native girl could not have gone so far as Huascan itself. No, probably that day I would reach my goal.

So I went on, feeling my way through the thick silent fog. I was able to see only a few inches ahead of me for hours. Then, abruptly the trail grew clearer. Until, at last I was moving in the shadowless, unearthly mist over hard-packed snow, following the clearly marked footprints of a girl’s sandals.

Then they vanished without warning, those prints, and I stood hesitant, staring around. I could see nothing, but a brighter glow in the misty canopy overhead marked the sun’s position.

I knelt and brushed away the snow with my hands, hoping to undo the wind’s concealing work. But I found no more footprints. Finally I took my bearings as well as I could and ploughed ahead in the general direction the girl had been traveling.

My compass told me I was heading due north.

The fog was a living, sentient thing now, secretive, shrouding the secret that lay beyond its gray wall.

Suddenly I was conscious of a change. An electric tingle coursed through my body. Abruptly the fog-wall brightened. Dimly, as through a translucent pane, I could make out vague images ahead of me.

I began to move toward the images—and suddenly the fog was gone!

Before me lay a valley. Blue-white moss carpeted it except where reddish boulders broke the blueness. Here and there were trees—at least I assumed they were trees, despite their unfamiliar outline. They were like banyans, having dozens of trunks narrow as bamboo. Blue-leafed, they stood like immense birdcages on the pallid moss. The fog closed in behind the valley and above it. It was like being in a huge sunlit cavern.

I turned my head, saw a gray wall behind me. Beneath my feet the snow was melting and running in tiny, trickling rivulets among the moss. The air was warm and stimulating as wine.

A strange and abrupt change. Impossibly strange! I walked toward one of the trees, stopped at a reddish boulder to examine it. And surprise caught at my throat. It was an artifact—a crumbling ruin, the remnant of an ancient structure whose original appearance I could not fathom. The stone seemed iron-hard. There were traces of inscription on it, but eroded to illegibility. And I never did learn the history of those enigmatic ruins. … They did not originate on Earth.

There was no sign of the native girl, and the resilient moss retained no tracks. I stood there, staring around, wondering what to do now. I was tense with excitement. But there was little to see. Just that valley covering perhaps a half-mile before the fog closed in around it.

Beyond that—I did not know what lay beyond that.

I went on, into the valley, eyeing my surroundings curiously in the shadowless light that filtered through the shifting roof of fog. Foolishly, I expected to discover Incan artifacts. The crumbled red stones should have warned me. They were, I think, harder than metal, yet they had been here long enough for the elements to erode them into featureless shards. Had they been of earthly origin they would have antedated Mankind—antedated even the Neanderthaler man.

Curious how our minds are conditioned to run in anthropomorphic lines. I was, though I did not know it, walking through a land that had its beginnings outside the known universe. The blue trees hinted at that. The crimson ruins told me that clearly. The atmospheric conditions—the fog, the warmth high up in the Cordilleras—were certainly not natural. Yet I thought the explanation lay in some geological warp, volcanic activity, subterranean gas-vents. …

My vision reached a half-mile, no farther. As I went on, the misty horizon receded. The valley was larger than I had imagined. It was like Elysium, where the shades of dead men stroll in the Garden of Proserpine. Streamlets ran through the blue moss at intervals, chill as death from the snowy plains hidden in the fog. “A sleepy world of streams. …”

The ruins altered in appearance as I went on. The red blocks were still present, but there were now also remnants of other structures, made by a different culture, I thought.

The blue trees grew more numerous. Leafy vines covered most of them now, saffron-tinted, making each strange tree a little room, screened by the lattice of the vines. As I passed close to one a faint clicking sounded, incongruously like the tapping of typewriter keys, but muffled. I saw movement and turned, my hand going to the pistol in my belt.

The Thing came out of a tree-hut and halted, watching me. I felt it watching me—though it had no eyes!

It was a sphere of what seemed to be translucent plastic, glowing with shifting rainbow colors. And I sensed sentience—intelligence—in its horribly human attitude of watchful hesitation. Four feet in diameter it was, and featureless save for three ivory elastic tentacles that supported it and a fringe of long, whip-like cilia about its diameter—its waist, I thought.

It looked at me, eyeless and cryptic. The shifting colors crawled over the plastic globe. Then it began to roll forward on the three supporting tentacles with a queer, swift gliding motion. I stepped back, jerking out my gun and leveling it.

“Stop,” I said, my voice shrill. “Stop!”

It stopped, quite as though it understood my words or the gesture of menace. The cilia fluttered about its spherical body. Bands of lambent color flashed. I could not rid myself of the curious certainty, that it was trying to communicate with me.

Abruptly it came forward again purposefully. I tensed and stepped back, holding the gun aimed. My finger was tightening on the trigger when the Thing stopped.

I backed off, nervously tense, but the creature did not follow. After I had got about fifty yards away it turned back and retreated into the hut-like structure in the banyan tree. After that I watched the trees warily as I passed them, but there were no other visitations of that nature.

Scientists are reluctant to relinquish their so-called logic. As I walked I tried to rationalize the creature, to explain it in the light of current knowledge. That it had been alive was certain. Yet it was not protoplasmic in nature. A plant, developed by mutation? Perhaps. But that theory did not satisfy me for the Thing had possessed intelligence, though of what order I did not know.

But there were the seven native girls, I reminded myself. My job was to find them, and quickly, too.

I did, at last, find them. Six of them, anyway. They were sitting in a row on the blue moss, facing one of the red blocks of stone, their backs toward me. As I mounted a little rise I saw them, motionless as bronze statues, and as rigid.

I went down toward them, tense with excitement, expectancy. Odd that six native girls, sitting in a row, should fill me with such feeling. They were so motionless that I wondered as I approached them, if they were dead. …

But they were not. Nor were they—in the true sense of the word—alive.

I gripped one by the bare shoulder, found the flesh surprisingly cold and the girl seemed not to feel my touch. I swung her around to face me, and her black, empty eyes looked off into the far distance. Her lips were tightly compressed, slightly cyanosed. The pupils of her eyes were inordinately dilated, as if she was drugged.

Indian style, she squatted cross-legged, like the others. As I pulled her around, she toppled down on the moss, making no effort to stop herself. For a moment she lay there. Then with slow, puppet-like motions, she returned to her former position and resumed that blank staring into space.

I looked at the others. They were alike in their sleep-like withdrawal. It seemed as if their minds had been sucked out of them, that their very selves were elsewhere. It was a fantastic diagnosis, of course. But the trouble with those girls was nothing a physician could understand. It was psychic in nature, obviously.

I turned to the first one and slapped her cheeks. “Wake up!” I commanded. “You must obey me! Waken—”

But she gave no sign of feeling, of seeing. I lit a match, and her eyes focused on the flame. But the size of her pupils did not alter. …

A shudder racked me. Then, abruptly I sensed movement behind me. I turned. …

Over the blue moss the seventh Indio girl was coming toward us. “Miranda!” I said. “Can you hear me?” Fra Rafael had told me her name. Her feet, I saw, were bare and white frostbite blotches marked them. But she did not seem to feel any pain as she walked.

Then I became aware that this was not a simple Indio girl. Something deep within my soul suddenly shrank back with instinctive revulsion. My skin seemed to crawl with a sort of terror. I began to shake so that it was difficult to draw my gun from its holster.

There was just this young native girl walking slowly toward me, her face quite expressionless, her black eyes fixed on emptiness. Yet she was not like other Indios, not like the six other girls sitting behind me. I can only liken her to a lamp in which a hot flame burned. The others were lamps that were dead, unlit.

The flame in her was not one that had been kindled on this earth, or in this universe, or in this space-time continuum, either. There was life in the girl who had been Miranda Valle—but it was not human life!

Some distant, skeptical corner of my brain told me that this was pure insanity, that I was deluded, hallucinated. Yes, I knew that. But it did not seem to matter. The girl who was walking so quietly across the blue yielding moss had wrapped about her, like an invisible, intangible veil, something of the alienage that men, through the eons, have called divinity. No mere human, I thought, could touch her.

But I felt fear, loathing—emotions not associated with divinity. I watched, knowing that presently she would look at me, would realize my presence. Then—well, my mind would not go beyond that point. …

She came forward and quietly seated herself with the others, at the end of the line. Her body stiffened rigidly. Then, the veil of terror seemed to leave her, like a cloak falling away. Abruptly she was just an Indio girl, empty and drained as the others, mindless and motionless.

The girl beside her rose suddenly with a slow, fluid motion. And the crawling horror hit me again. … The Alien Power had not left! It had merely transferred itself to another body!

And this second body was as dreadful to my senses as the first had been. In some subtly monstrous way its terror impressed itself on my brain, though all the while there was nothing overt, nothing visibly wrong. The strange landscape, bounded by fog, was not actually abnormal, considering its location, high in the Andes. The blue moss, the weird trees; they were strange, but possible. Even the seven native girls were a normal part of the scene. It was the sense of an alien presence that caused my terror—a fear of the unknown. …

As the newly “possessed” girl rose, I turned and fled, deathly sick, feeling caught in the grip of nightmare. Once I stumbled and fell. As I scrambled wildly to my feet I looked back.

The girl was watching me, her face tiny and far away. Then, suddenly, abruptly it was close. She stood within a few feet of me! I had not moved nor seen her move, but we were all close together again—the seven girls and I. …

Hypnosis? Something of that sort. She had drawn me back to her, my mind blacked out and unresisting. I could not move. I could only stand motionless while that Alien being dwelling within human flesh reached out and thrust frigid fingers into my soul. I could feel my mind laid open, spread out like a map before the inhuman gaze that scanned it. It was blasphemous and shameful, and I could not move or resist!

I was flung aside as the psychic grip that held me relaxed. I could not think clearly. That remote delving into my brain had made me blind, sick, frantic. I remember running. …

But I remember very little of what followed. There are vague pictures of blue moss and twisted trees, of coiling fog that wrapped itself about me, trying futilely to hold me back. And always there was the sense of a dark and nameless horror just beyond vision, hidden from me—though I was not hidden from its eyeless gaze!

I remember reaching the wall of fog, saw it loomed before me, plunged into it, raced through cold grayness, snow crunching beneath my boots. I recall emerging again into that misty valley of Abaddon. …

When I regained complete consciousness I was with Lhar.

A coolness as of limpid water moved through my mind, cleansing it, washing away the horror, soothing and comforting me. I was lying on my back looking up at an arabesque pattern of blue and saffron; gray-silver light filtered through a lacy, filigree. I was still weak but the blind terror no longer gripped me.

I was inside a hut formed by the trunks of one of the banyan-like trees. Slowly, weakly I rose on one elbow. The room was empty except for a curious flower that grew from the dirt floor beside me. I looked at it dazedly.

And so I met Lhar. … She was of purest white, the white of alabaster, but with a texture and warmth that stone does not have. In shape—well, she seemed to be a great flower, an unopened tulip-like blossom five feet or so tall. The petals were closely enfolded, concealing whatever sort of body lay hidden beneath, and at the base was a convoluted pedestal that gave the odd impression of a ruffled, tiny skirt. Even now I cannot describe Lhar coherently. A flower, yes—but very much more than that. Even in that first glimpse I knew that Lhar was more than just a flower. …

I was not afraid of her. She had saved me, I knew, and I felt complete trust in her. I lay back as she spoke to me telepathically, her words and thoughts forming within my brain. …

“You are well now, though still weak. But it is useless for you to try to escape from this valley. No one can escape. The Other has powers I do not know, and those powers will keep you here.”

I said, “You are—?”

A name formed within my mind. “Lhar. I am not of your world.”

A shudder shook her. And her distress forced itself on me. I stood up, swaying with weakness. Lhar drew back, moving with a swaying, bobbing gait oddly like a curtsey.

Behind me a clicking sounded. I turned, saw the many-colored sphere force itself through the banyan-trunks. Instinctively my hand went to my gun. But a thought from Lhar halted me.

“It will not harm you. It is my servant.” She hesitated, groping for a word. “A machine. A robot. It will not harm you.”

I said, “Is it intelligent?”

“Yes. But it is not alive. Our people made it. We have many such machines.”

The robot swayed toward me, the rim of cilia flashing and twisting. Lhar said, “It speaks thus, without words or thought. …” She paused, watching the sphere, and I sensed dejection in her manner.

The robot turned to me. The cilia twisted lightly about my arm, tugging me toward Lhar. I said, “What does it want?”

“It knows that I am dying,” Lhar said.

That shocked me. “Dying? No!”

“It is true. Here in this alien world I do not have my usual food. So I will die. To survive I need the blood of mammals. But there are none here save those seven the Other has taken. And I cannot use them for they are now spoiled.”

I didn’t ask Lhar what sort of mammals she had in her own world. “That’s what the robot wanted when it tried to stop me before, isn’t it?”

“He wanted you to help me, yes. But you are weak from the shock you have had. I cannot ask you—”

I said, “How much blood do you need?”

At her answer, I said, “All right. You saved my life; I must do the same for you. I can spare that much blood easily. Go ahead.”

She bowed toward me, a fluttering white flame in the dimness of the tree-room. A tendril flicked out from among her petals, wrapped itself about my arm. It felt cool, gentle as a woman’s hand. I felt no pain.

“You must rest now,” Lhar said. “I will go away but I shall not be long.”

The robot clicked and chattered, shifting on its tentacle legs. I watched it, saying, “Lhar, this can’t be true. Why am I—believing impossible things?”

“I have given you peace,” she told me. “Your mind was dangerously close to madness. I have drugged you a little, physically; so your emotions will not be strong for a while. It was necessary to save your sanity.”

It was true that my mind felt—was drugged the word? My thoughts were clear enough, but I felt as if I were submerged in transparent but dark water. There was an odd sense of existing in a dream. I remembered Swinburne’s lines:

Here, where the world is quiet,
Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds’ and spent waves’ riot
In doubtful dreams of dreams. …

“What is this place?” I asked.

Lhar bent toward me. “I do not know if I can explain. It is not quite clear to me. The robot knows. He is a reasoning machine. Wait. …” She turned to the sphere. Its cilia fluttered in quick, complicated signals.

Lhar turned back to me. “Do you know much of the nature of Time? That it is curved, moves in a spiral. …”

She went on to explain, but much of her explanation I did not understand. Yet I gathered enough to realize that this valley was not of Earth. Or, rather, it was not of the earth I knew.

“You have geological disturbances, I know. The strata are tumbled about, mixed one with another—”

I remembered what Fra Rafael had said about an earthquake, three months before. Lhar nodded toward me.

“But this was a time-slip. The space-time continuum is also subject to great strains and stresses. It buckled, and strata—Time-sectors—were thrust up to mingle with others. This valley belongs to another age, as do I and the machine, and also—the Other.”

She told me what had happened. … There had been no warning. One moment she had been in her own World, her own Time. The next, she was here, with her robot. And with the Other. …

“I do not know the origin of the Other. I may have lived in either your future or your past. This valley, with its ruined stone structures, is probably part of your future. I had never heard of such a place before. The Other may be of the future also. Its shape I do not know. …”

She told me more, much more. The Other, as she called it—giving the entity a thought-form that implied complete alienage—had a strangely chameleon-like method of feeding. It lived on life-force, as well as I could understand, draining the vital powers of a mammal vampirically. And it assumed the shape of its prey as it fed. It was not possession, in the strict sense of the word. It was a sort of merging. …

Humanity is inclined to invest all things with its own attributes, forgetting that outside the limitations of time and space and size, familiar laws of nature do not apply.

So, even now I do not know all that lay behind the terror in that Peruvian valley. This much I learned: the Other, like Lhar and her robot, had been cast adrift by a time-slip, and thus marooned here. There was no way for it to return to its normal Time-sector. It had created the fog-wall to protect itself from the direct rays of the sun, which threatened its existence.

Sitting there in the filigreed, silver twilight beside Lhar, I had a concept of teeming universes of space-time, of an immense spiral of lives and civilizations, races and cultures, covering an infinite cosmos. And yet—what had happened? Very little, in that inconceivable infinity. A rift in time, a dimensional slip—and a sector of land and three beings on it had been wrenched from their place in time and transported to our time-stratum.

A robot, a flower that was alive and intelligent—and feminine—and the Other. …

“The native girls,” I said. “What will happen to them?”

“They are no longer alive,” Lhar told me. “They still move and breathe, but they are dead, sustained only by the life-force of the Other. I do not think it will harm me. Apparently it prefers other food.”

“That’s why you’ve stayed here?” I asked.

The shining velvety calyx swayed. “I shall die soon. For a little while I thought that I might manage to survive in this alien world, this alien time. Your blood has helped.” The cool tentacle withdrew from my arm. “But I lived in a younger time, where space was filled with—with certain energizing vibratory principles.

“They have faded now almost to nothing, to what you call cosmic rays. And these are too weak to maintain my life. No, I must die. And then my poor robot will be alone.” I sensed elfin amusement in that last thought. “It seems absurd to you that I should think affectionately of a machine. But in our world there is a rapport—a mental symbiosis—between robot and living beings.”

There was a silence. After a while I said, “I’d better get out of here. Get help—to end the menace of the other. …” What sort of help I did not know. Was the Other vulnerable?

Lhar caught my thought. “In its own shape it is vulnerable, but what that shape is I do not know. As for your escaping from this valley—you cannot. The fog will bring you back.”

“I’ve got my compass.” I glanced at it, saw that the needle was spinning at random.

Lhar said: “The Other has many powers. Whenever you go into the fog, you will always return here.”

“How do you know all this?” I asked.

“My robot tells me. A machine can reason logically, better than a colloid brain.”

I closed my eyes, trying to think. Surely it should not be difficult for me to retrace my steps, to find a path out of this valley. Yet I hesitated, feeling a strange impotence.

“Can’t your robot guide me?” I persisted.

“He will not leave my side. Perhaps—” Lhar turned to the sphere, and the cilia fluttered excitedly. “No,” she said, turning back to me. “Built into his mind is one rule—never to leave me. He cannot disobey that.”

I couldn’t ask Lhar to go with me. Somehow I sensed that the frigid cold of the surrounding mountains would destroy her swiftly. I said, “It must be possible for me to get out of here. I’m going to try, anyway.”

“I will be waiting,” she said, and did not move as I slipped out between two trunks of the banyan-like tree.

It was daylight and the silvery grayness overhead was palely luminous. I headed for the nearest rampart of fog.

Lhar was right. Each time I went into that cloudy fog barrier I was blinded. I crept forward step by step, glancing behind me at my footprints in the snow, trying to keep in a straight line. And presently I would find myself back in the valley. …

I must have tried a dozen times before giving up. There were no landmarks in that all-concealing grayness, and only by sheerest chance would anyone blunder into this valley—unless hypnotically summoned, like the Indio girls.

I realized that I was trapped. Finally I went back to Lhar. She hadn’t moved an inch since I had left, nor had the robot, apparently.

“Lhar,” I said. “Lhar, can’t you help me?”

The white flame of the flower was motionless, but the robot’s cilia moved in quick signals. Lhar moved at last.

“Perhaps,” her thought came. “Unless both induction and deduction fail, my robot has discovered a chance for you. The Other can control your mind through emotions. But I, too, have some power over your mind. If I give you strength, wall you with a psychic shield against intrusion, you may be able to face the Other. But you cannot destroy it unless it is in its normal shape. The Indio girls must be killed first. …”

“Killed?” I felt a sense of horror at the thought of killing those poor simple native girls.

“They are not actually alive now. They are now a part of the Other. They can never be restored to their former life.”

“How will—destroying them—help me?” I asked.

Again Lhar consulted the robot. “The Other will be driven from their bodies. It will then have no hiding-place and must resume its own form. Then it can be slain.”

Lhar swayed and curtseyed away. “Come,” she said. “It is in my mind that the Other must die. It is evil, ruthlessly selfish, which is the same thing. Until now I have not realized the solution to this evil being. But seeing into your thoughts has clarified my own. And my robot tells me that unless I aid you, the Other will continue ravening into your world. If that happens, the time-pattern will be broken. … I do not quite understand, but my robot makes no mistakes. The Other must die. …”

She was outside of the banyan now, the sphere gliding after her. I followed. The three of us moved swiftly across the blue moss, guided by the robot.

In a little while we came to where the six Indio girls were squatting. They had apparently not moved since I had left them.

“The Other is not here,” Lhar said.

The robot held me back as Lhar advanced toward the girls, the skirt-like frill at her base convoluting as she moved. She paused beside them and her petals trembled and began to unfold.

From the tip of that great blossom a fountain of white dust spurted up. Spores or pollen, it seemed to be. The air was cloudy with the whiteness.

The robot drew me back, back again. I sensed danger. …

The pollen seemed to be drawn toward the Indios, spun toward them in dancing mist-motes. It settled on their bronzed bodies, their limbs and faces. It covered them like a veil until they appeared to be six statues, white as cold marble, there on the blue moss.

Lhar’s petals lifted and closed again. She swayed toward me, her mind sending a message into mine.

“The Other has no refuge now,” she told me. “I have slain the—the girls.”

“They’re dead?” My lips were dry.

“What semblance of life they had left is now gone. The Other cannot use them again.”

Lhar swayed toward me. A cool tentacle swept out, pressing lightly on my forehead. Another touched my breast, above the heart.

“I give you of my strength,” Lhar said. “It will be as shield and buckler to you. The rest of the way you must go alone. …”

Into me tides of power flowed. I sank into cool depths, passionless and calm. Something was entering my body, my mind and soul, drowning my fears, stiffening my resolve.

Strength of Lhar was now my strength!

The tentacles dropped away, their work done. The robot’s cilia signalled and Lhar said, “Your way lies there. That temple—do you see it?”

I saw it. Far in the distance, half shrouded by the fog, a scarlet structure, not ruined like the others, was visible.

“You will find the Other there. Slay the last Indio, then destroy the Other.”

I had no doubt now of my ability to do that. A new power seemed to lift me from my feet, send me running across the moss. Once I glanced back, to see Lhar and her robot standing motionless, watching me.

The temple enlarged as I came nearer. It was built of the same reddish stone as the other ruined blocks I had seen. But erosion had weathered its harsh angles till nothing now remained but a rounded, smoothly sculptured monolith, twenty feet tall, shaped like a rifle shell.

A doorway gaped in the crimson wall. I paused for a moment on the threshold. In the dimness within a shadow stirred. I stepped forward, finding myself in a room that was tall and narrow, the ceiling hidden in gloom. Along the walls were carvings I could not clearly see. They gave a suggestion of inhuman beings that watched.

It was dark but I could see the Indio girl who had been Miranda Valle. Her eyes were on me, and, even through the protecting armor of Lhar strength; I could feel their terrible power.

The life in the girl was certainly not human!

“Destroy her!” my mind warned. “Destroy her! Quickly!”

But as I hesitated a veil of darkness seemed to fall upon me. Utter cold, a frigidity as of outer space, lanced into my brain. My senses reeled under the assault. Desperately, blind and sick and giddy, I called on the reserve strength Lhar had given me. Then I blacked out. …

When I awoke I saw smoke coiling up from the muzzle of the pistol in my hand. At my feet lay the Indio girl, dead. My bullet had crashed into her brain, driving out the terrible dweller there.

My eyes were drawn to the farther wall. An archway gaped there. I walked across the room, passed under the archway. Instantly I was in complete, stygian darkness. But I was not alone!

The power of the Other struck me like a tangible blow. I have no words to tell of an experience so completely disassociated from human memories. I remember only this: my mind and soul were sucked down into a black abyss where I had no volition or consciousness. It was another dimension of the mind where my senses were altered. …

Nothing existed there but the intense blackness beyond time and space. I could not see the Other nor conceive of it. It was pure intelligence, stripped of flesh. It was alive and it had power—power that was godlike.

There in the great darkness I stood alone, unaided, sensing the approach of an entity from some horribly remote place where all values were altered.

I sensed Lhar’s nearness. “Hurry!” her thought came to me. “Before it wakens!”

Warmth flowed into me. The blackness receded. …

Against the farther wall something lay, a thing bafflingly human … a great-headed thing with a tiny pallid body coiled beneath it. It was squirming toward me. …

“Destroy it!” Lhar communicated.

The pistol in my hand thundered, bucking against my palm. Echoes roared against the walls. I fired and fired again until the gun was empty. …

“It is dead,” Lhar’s thought entered my mind.

I stumbled, dropped the pistol.

“It was the child of an old super-race—a child not yet born.”

Can you conceive of such a race? Where even the unborn had power beyond human understanding? My mind wondered what the adult Alien must be.

I shivered, suddenly cold. An icy wind gusted through the temple. Lhar’s thought was clear in my mind.

“Now the valley is no longer a barrier to the elements. The Other created fog and warmth to protect itself. Now it is dead and your world reclaims its own.”

From the outer door of the temple I could see the fog being driven away by a swift wind. Snow was falling slowly, great white flakes that blanketed the blue moss and lay like caps on the red shards that dotted the valley.

“I shall die swiftly and easily now, instead of slowly, by starvation,” Lhar said.

A moment later a thought crossed my mind, faint and intangible as a snowflake and I knew Lhar was saying goodbye.

I left the valley. Once I looked back, but there was only a veil of snow behind me.

And out of the greatest adventure the cosmic gods ever conceived—only this: For a little while the eternal veil of time was ripped away and the door to the unknown was held ajar.

But now the door is closed once more. Below Huascan a robot guards a tomb, that is all.

The snow fell faster. Shivering, I ploughed through the deepening drifts. My compass needle pointed north. The spell that had enthralled the valley was gone.

Half an hour later I found the trail, and the road to safety lay open before me. Fra Rafael would be waiting to hear my story.

But I did not think that he would believe it. …

Colophon

Short Fiction
was published between 1936 and 1954 by
Henry Kuttner.

This ebook was produced for
Standard Ebooks
by
Robin Whittleton,
and is based on transcriptions produced between 2010 and 2022 by
Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan, Alex White, Sankar Viswanathan, Distributed Proofreaders Canada, and Distributed Proofreaders
for
Project Gutenberg
and on digital scans from the
Internet Archive.

The cover page is adapted from
Construction in Blue,
a painting completed in 1925 by
Paul Gaulois.
The cover and title pages feature the
League Spartan and Sorts Mill Goudy
typefaces created in 2014 and 2009 by
The League of Moveable Type.

This edition was released on
March 10, 2026, 7:22 p.m.
and is based on
revision 86732ad.
The first edition of this ebook was released on
September 9, 2024, 6:58 p.m.
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